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“JUST LISTEN TO THIS, SIR, AND SAY WHETHER IT BE VERY PAR PROM CHRISTIAN.” 

Page 12. Donal Grant. 




DONAL GRANT 


By GEORGE MACDONALD 


Author of “AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND,” 
“DAVID ELGINBROD,” “THE PRINCESS AND THE 
GOBLIN,” “THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE,” “THE 
PRINCESS AND CURDIE,” “SIR GIBBIE,” etc., etc. 



“ Some with the bright lamp of their intellect, others with the 
smoky lamp of their life, cast a shadow of God on the wall of the 
universe, and then believe or disbelieve in the shadow.” 


A. L. BURT COMPANY, ^ ^ ^ 

* jt j» j» PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK 



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DONAL GRANT 


CHAPTER I. 

FOOT-FARING . 

It was a lovely morning in the first of summer. Donal 
Grant was descending a path on a hillside to the valley 
below — a sheep-track, of which he knew every winding as 
well as any boy his half-mile to and from school. But he 
had never before gone down the hill with the feeling that 
he was not about to go up again. He was on his way to 
pastures very new, and in the distance only negatively in- 
viting. But his heart was too full to be troubled — nor 
was his a heart to harbor a care, the next thing to an evil 
spirit, though not quite so bad; for one care may drive 
out another, while one devil is sure to bring in another. 

A great billowy waste of mountains lay beyond him, 
among which played the shadows at their games of hide- 
and-seek — graciously merry in the eyes of the happy man, 
but sadly solemn in the eyes of him in whose heart the 
dreary thoughts of the past are at a like game. Behind 
Donal lay a world of dreams into which he dared not turn 
and look, yet from which he could scarce avert his eyes. 

He was nearing the foot of the hill when he stumbled and 
almost fell, but recovered himself with the agility of a 
mountaineer, and the unpleasaut knowledge that the sole 
of one of his shoes was all but off. N ever had he left home 
for college that his father had not made personal inspec- 
tion of his shoes to see that they were fit for the journey, 
but on this departure they had been forgotten. He sat 
down and took off the failing equipment. It was too far 
gone to do anything temporary with it; and of discomforts 
a loose sole to one’s shoe in walking is of the worst. The 
only thing was to take off the other shoe and both stock- 


2 


DONAL QIIANT. 


ingsand go barefoot. He tied all together with apiece of 
string, made them fast to his deerskin knapsack, and re- 
sumed his walk. The thing did not trouble him much. 
To have what we want is riches, but to be able to do with- 
out is power. To have shoes is a good thing; to be able 
to walk without them is a better. But it was long since 
Donal had walked barefoot, and he found his feet, like his 
shoe, weaker in the sole than was pleasant. 

“It’s time,” he said to himself, when he found he was 
stepping gingerly, “I ga’e my feet a turn at the auld 
accomplishment. It’s a pity to grow nae so fit for ony- 
thing suner nor ye need. I wad like to lie doon at last wi’ 
hard soles!” 

In every stream he came to he bathed his feet, and 
often on the way rested them, when otherwise able enough 
to go on. He had no certain goal, though he knew his 
direction, and was in no haste. He had confidence m 
God and in his own powers as the gift of God, and knew 
that wherever he went he needed not be hungry long, 
even should the little money in his pocket be spent. It is 
better to trust in work than in money: God never buys 
anything, and is forever at work; but if any one trust in 
work, he has to learn that he must trust in nothing but 
strength — the self-existent, original strength only; and 
Donal Grant had long begun to learn that. The man has 
begun to be strong who knows that, separated from life 
essential, he is weakness itself, that, one with his origin, 
he will be of strength inexhaustible. Donal was now 
descending the heights of youth to walk along the king’s 
high-road of manhood : happy he who, as his sun is going 
down behind the western, is himself ascending the eastern 
hill, returning through old age to the second and better 
childhood which shall not be taken from him! He who 
turns his back on the setting sun goes to meet the rising 
sun; he who loses his life shall find it. Donal had lost 
his past — but not so as to be ashamed. There are many 
ways of losing! His past had but crept, like the dead, 
back to God who gave it; in better shape it would be his 
by and by! Already he had begun to foreshadow this 
truth: God would keep it for him. 

He had set out before the sun was up, for he would not 
be met by friends or acquaintances. Avoiding the well- 
known farm-houses and occasional villages, he took his 


DONAL GRANT. 


3 


way up the river, and about noon came to a hamlet where 
no one knew him — a cluster of straw-roofed cottages, low 
and white, with two little windows each. He walked 
straight through it, not meaning to stop; but, spying in 
front of the last cottage a rough stone seat under a low, 
wide-spreading elder tree, was tempted to sit down and 
rest a little. The day was now hot, and the shadow of the 
tree inviting. 

He had but seated himself when a woman came to the 
door of the cottage, looked at him for a moment, and 
probably thinking him, from his hare feet, poorer than 
he was, said : 

“Wad ye like a drink?” 

“Ay, wad I,” answered Donal — “a drink o’ watter, 
gien ye please.” 

“What for no milk?” asked the woman. 

“’Cause I’m able to pey for ’t,” answered Donal. 

“I want nae peyment,” she rejoined, perceiving his 
drift as little as probably my reader. 

“An’ I want nae milk,” returned Donal. 

“Weel, ye may pey for ’t gien ye like,” she rejoined. 

“But I dinna like,” replied Donal. 

“Weel, ye’re a some queer customer!” she remarked. 

“I thank ye, but I’m nae customer, ’cep’ for a drink o’ 
watter,” he persisted, looking in her face with a smile; 
“an’ watter has aye been gratis sin’ the days o’ Adam — 
’cep’ maybe i’ toons i’ the het pairts o’ the warl\” 

The woman turned into the cottage, and came out again 
presently with a delf basin, holding about a pint, full of 
milk, yellow and rich. 

“There!” she said; “drink an’ be thankfu’.” 

“I’ll be thankfu’ ohn drunken,” said Donal. “I thank 
ye wi’ a’ my heart. But I canna bide to tak for naething 
what I can pey for, an’ I dinna like to lay oot my siller 
upon a luxury I can weel eneuch du wantin’, for I haena 
muckle. I wadna be shabby nor yet greedy.” 

“Drink for the love o’ God,” said the woman. 

Donal took the bowl from her hand and drank till all 
was gone. 

“Wull ye hae a drap mair?” she asked. 

“Na, no a drap,” answered Donal. “I’ll gang i’ the 
stren’th o’ that ye hae gi’en me — maybe no jist forty days, 
gudewife, but mair nor forty minutes, an’ that’s a gude 


4 


DONAL GRANT. 


pairt o’ a day. I thank ye hertily. Yon was the milk o’ 
human kin’ness, gien ever was ony.” 

As he spoke he rose, and stood up refreshed for his 
journey. 

“I hae a sodger laddie awa’ i’ the het pairts ye spak 
o’,” said the woman: “gien ye hadna ta’en the milk, ye 
wad hae gi’en me a sair hert ” 

“Eh, gudewife, it wad hae gi’en me ane to think I 
had !” returned Donal. “The Lord gie ye back yer sodger 
laddie safe an’ soon’! Maybe I’ll hae to gang after ’im, 
sodger mysel’ !” 

“Na, na, that wadna do. Ye’re a scholar — that’s easy 
to see, for a’ ye’re sae plain-spoken. It dis a body’s hert 
guid to hear a man ’at un’erstan’s things say them plain 
oot i’ the tongue his mither tauebt him. Sic a ane 'ill 
gang straucht till’s Makker, an’ fin’ a’ thing there bame- 
like. Lord, I wuss minnisters wad speyk like ither fowk !” 

“Ye wad sair please my mither sayin’ that,” remarked 
Donal. “Ye maun be jist sic anither as her!” 

“Weel, come in an' sit ye doon oot o’ the sun, an’ hae 
something to ait.” 

“Na, I’ll tak nae mair frae ye the day, an’ I thank ye,” 
replied Donal; “I canna weel bide.” 

“What for no?” 

“It’s no sae muckle ’at I’m in a hurry as ’at I maun he 
duin’.” 

“Whaur are ye b’un’ for, gi’en a body may speir?” 

“I’m gaein’ to seek — no my fortin, hut my daily breid. 
Gien I spak as a richt man, I wad say I was gaein’ to 
luik for the wark set me. I’m feart to say that straucht 
oot; I haena won sae far as that yet. I winna do nae- 
thing though ’at He wadna hae me du. I daur to say that 
— sae be I un’erstan’. My mither says the day ’ill come 
whan I’ll care for naething but His wull.” 

“Yer mither ’ill be Janet Grant, I’m thinkin’! There 
canna be twa sic in ae country-side!” 

“Ye’re i’ the richt,” answered Donal. “Ken ye my 
mither?” 

“I hae seen her; an’ to see her’s to ken her.” 

“Ay, gien wha sees her be sic like ’s herseT.” 

“I canna preten’ to that; but she’s weel kent throu’ a’ 
the country for a God-fearin’ wuman. An’ whaur’ll ye 
be for the noo?” 


DONAL BRANT. 


5 


“I’m jist upo’ the tramp, linkin' for wark.” 

“An' what may ye be pleast to ca’ wark?” 

“Ow, jist the communication o’ what I hae the un’er- 
stan’in’ o'.” 

“Aweel, gien ye’ll condescen’ to advice frae an auld 
wife, I’ll gie ye a bit wi’ ye: tak na ilka lass ye see for a 
born angel. Misdoobt her a wee to begin wi’. Hing up 
yer jeedgment o’ her a wee. Luik to the moo’ an’ the 
e’en o’ her.” 

“I thank ye,” said Donal with a smile, in which the 
woman spied the sadness; “I’m no like to need the 
advice.” 

She looked at him pitifully, and paused. 

“Gien ye come this gait again,” she said, “ye’ll no 
gang by my door?” 

“I wull no,” replied Donal, and wishing her good-by 
with a grateful heart, betook himself to his journey. 

He had not gone far when he found himself on a wide 
moor. He sat down on a big stone, and began to turn 
things over in his mind. This is how his thoughts went: 

“I can never be the man I was! The thoucht o’ my 
heart’s ta’enfraeme! I canna think aboot things as I 
used. There’s naething sae bonny as afore. Whan the 
life slips frae him, hoo can a man gang on livin’? Yet 
I’m no deid — that’s what maks the dilfeeclety o’ the situa- 
tion! Gien I war deid — weel, I kenna what than! I 
doobt there wad be trible still, though some things micht 
be lichter. But that’s neither here nor there; I maun 
live;Ihaenae ch’ice; I didna mak mj'sel’, an’ I’m no 
gaein’ to meddle wi’ mysel’! I think mair o’ mysel’ nor 
daur that! 

“But there’s ae question I maun settle afore I £ang 
further — an’ that’s this: am I to be less or mair nor I was 
afore? It’s agreed I canna be the same: if I canna be the 
same, I maun aither be less or greater than I was afore: 
whilk o’ them is’t to he? I winna hae that question to 
speir mair nor ance! I’ll be mair nor I was. To sink to 
less wad be to lowse grip o’ my past as weel’s o’ my futur. 
An’ hoo wad I ever luik her i’ the face gien I grew less 
because o’ her! A chiel’ like me lat a bonny lassie think 
hersel’ to blame for what I grew til! An’ there’:: a greater 
nor the lass to beconsidert! ’Cause he seesna fit to gie me 
her I wad hae, is he no to hae his wull o’ me? It’s a 


6 


TONAL GRANT. 


gran’ thing to ken a lassie like yon, an’ a gran’er thing yet 
to be allooed to lo’e her: to sit down an’ greit ’cause I’m 
no to merry her wad be most oongratefu’ ! What for sud 
I threip ’at I oucht to hae her? What for sudna I be dis- 
app’intit as weel as anither? I hae as guid a richt to ony 
guid ’at’s to come o’ that, I fancy! Gien it be a man’s 
pairt to carry a sair hert, it canna be his pairt to sit doon 
wi’ ’t upo’ the ro’dside, an’ lay’t upo’ his lap, an’ greit 
ower’t, like a bairn wi’ a cuttit finger: he maun hand on 
his ro’d. Wha am I to differ frae the lave o’ my fowk? 
I s’ be like the lave, an’ gien I greit I winna girn. The 
Lord himsel’ had to be croont wi’ pain. Eh, my bonny 
doo! But ye lo’e a better man, an’ that’s a sair comfort! 
Gien it had been itherwise, I div not think I could hae 
borne the pain at my hert. But as it’s guid an’ no ill ’at’s 
come to ye, I haena you an’ mysel’ tu greit for, an’ that’s 
a sair comfort! Lord, I’ll dim’ to thee, an’ gaithero’ the 
healin’ ’at grows for the nations i’ thy gairden. 

“I see the thing as plain’s thing can be: the cure o’ a’ 
ill’s jist mair life! That’s it! Life abune an’ ayont the 
life ’at took the stroke! An’ gien throu’ this hert-brak I 
come by mair life, it’ll be jist ane o’ the throes o’ my 
h’avenly birth — i’ the whilk the bairn has as mony o’ 
the pains as the mither; that's maybe a differ atween the 
twa — the earthly an’ the h’avenly! 

“Sae noo I hae to begin fresh, an’ lat the thing ’at’s 
past an gane slip efter ither dreams. Eh, but it’s a bonny 
dream yet! It lies close ahin’ me, no to be forgotten, 
no to be luikit at — like ane o’ thae dreams o’ watter an’ 
munelicht ’at has nae wark i’ them: a body wadna lie a’ 
nicht an’ a’ day tu in a dream o’ the sowl’s gloamin’! 
Na, Lord; mak o’ me a strong man, an’ syne gie me as 
muckle o’ the bonny as may please thee. Wha am I to 
lippen til, gien no to thee, my ain father an’ mither an’ 
gran’father an’ a’ body in ane, for thoo giedst me them a’! 

“Noo I’m to begin again — a fresh life frae this minute! 
I’m to set oot frae this verra p’int, like ane o’ the young- 
est sons i’ the fairy tales, to seek my portion, an’ see 
what’s cornin’ to meet me as I gang to meet it. The 
warl’ afore me’s my story-buik. I canna see ower the leaf 
till I come to the en’ o’ ’t. Whan I was a bairn, jist 
able, wi’ sair endeevor, to win at the hert o’ print, I 
never wad luik on afore! The ae time I did it, I thoucht 


DONAL GRANT. 


7 


I had dune a shamefu* thing, like luikin’ in at a keyhole 
— as I did jist ance tu, whan I thank God my mither gae 
me sic a blessed lickin’ ’at I kent it maun be something 
dreidfu’ I had dune. Sae here’s for what’s cornin’! I 
ken whaur it maun come frae, an’ I s’ mak it welcome. 
My mither says the main mischeef i’ the warl’ is, ’at fowk 
winna lat the Lord hae his ain w’y, an’ sae he has jist to 
tak it, whilk maks it a sair thing for them.” 

Therewith he rose to encounter that which was on its 
way to meet him. He is a fool who stands and lets life 
move past him like a panorama. He also is a fool who 
would lay hands on its motion and change its pictures. 
He can but distort and injure, if he does not ruin them 
and come upon awful shadows behind them. 

And lo! as he glanced around him, already something 
of the old mysterious loveliness, now for so long vanished 
from the face of the visible world, had returned to it — 
not yet as it was before, but with dawning promise of a 
new creation, a fresh beauty, in welcoming which he was 
not turning from the old, but receiving the new that God 
sent him. He might yet be many a time sad, but to 
lament would be to act as if he were Avronged — would be 
at best weak and foolish! He would look the new life in 
the face and be what it should please God to make him. 
The scents the wind brought him from the field and 
garden and moor seemed sweeter than ever wind-borne 
scents before: they were seeking to comfort him! He 
sighed — but turned from the sigh to God, and found fresh 
gladness and welcome. The wind hovered about him as 
if it would fain have something to do in the matter; the 
river rippled and shone as if it knew something worth 
knowing as yet unrevealed. The delight of creation is 
verily in secrets, but in secrets as truths on the way. All 
secrets are embryo revelations. On the far horizon heaven 
and earth met as old friends, who, though never parted, 
were ever renewing their friendship. The world, like the 
angels, was rejoicing— if not over a sinner that had re- 
pented, yet over a man that had passed from a lower to a 
higher condition of life — out of its earth into its air: he 
was going to live above, and look down on the interior 
world ! Ere the shades of evening fell that day around 
Donal Grant, he was in the new childhood of a new world. 

I do not mean such thoughts had never been present to 


8 


DONAL GRANT. 


him before, but to think a thing is only to look at it in a 
glass; to know it as'God would have us know it, and as 
we must know it to live, is to see it as we see love in a 
friend’s eyes — to have it as the love the friend sees in 
ours. To make things real to us is the end and the 
battle-cause of life. We often think we believe what we 
are only presenting to our imaginations. The least thing 
can overthrow that kind of faith. The imagination is an 
endless help toward faith, but it is no more faith than a 
dream of food will make us strong for the next day’s 
work. To know God as the beginning and end, the root 
and cause, the giver, the enabler, the love and joy and 
perfect good, the present one existence in all things and 
degrees and conditions, is life; and faith, in its simplest, 
truest, mightiest form is — to do his will. 

Donal was making his way toward the eastern coast, in 
the certain hope of finding work of one kind or another. 
He could have been well content to pass his life as a shep- 
herd like his father but for two things: he knew what 
it would be well for others to know; and he had a 
hunger after the society of books. A man must be 
able to do without whatever is denied him, but when 
his heart is hungry for an honest thing, he may use 
honest endeavor to obtain it. Donal desired to be use- 
ful and live for his generation, also to be with books. 
To be where was a good library would suit him better 
than buying books, for without a place in which to keep 
them, they are among the impedimenta of life. And 
Donal knew that in regard to books he was in danger of 
loving after the fashion of this world: books he had a 
strong inclination to accumulate and hoard; therefore the 
use of a library was better than the means of buying them. 
Books as possessions are also of the things that pass and 
perish — as surely as any other form of earthly having; 
they are of the playthings God lets men have that they 
may learn to distinguish between apparent and real posses- 
sion: if having will not teach them, loss may. 

But who would have thought, meeting the youth as he 
walked the road with shoeless feet, that he sought the 
harbor of a great library in some old house, so as day after 
day to feast on the thoughts of men who had gone before 
him! For his was no antiquarian soul; it was a soul 
hungry after life, not after the mummy cloths enwrap- 
ping the dead. 


DONAL GRANT. 


9 


CHAPTER II. 

A. SPIRITUAL FOOTPAD. 

He was now walking southward, but would soon, when 
the mountains were well behind him, turn toward the 
east. He carried a small wallet, filled chiefly with oat- 
cake and hard skim-milk cheese: about two o’clock he sat 
down on a stone and proceeded to make a meal. A brook 
from the hills ran near: for that he had chosen the spot, 
his fare being dry. He seldom took any other drink than 
water: he had learned that strong drink at best but dis- 
counted to him his own at a high rate. 

He drew from his pocket a small thick volume he had 
brought as the companion of his journey, and read as he 
ate. His seat was on the last slope of a grassy hill, where 
many-hued stones rose out of the grass. A few yards be- 
neath was a country road, and on the other side of the 
road a small stream, in which the brook that ran swiftly 
past, almost within reach of his hand, eagerly lost itself. 
On the further bank of the stream, perfuming the air, 
grew many bushes of meadow sweet, or queen-of-the- 
meadow, as it is called in Scotland; and beyond lay a 
lovely stretch of nearly level pasture. Further eastward 
all was a plain, full of farms. Behind him rose the hill, 
shutting out his past; before him lay the plain, open to 
his eyes and feet. God had walled up his past, and was 
disclosing his future. 

When he had eaten his dinner, its dryness forgotten in 
the condiment his book supplied, he rose, and taking his 
cap from his head, filled it from the stream and drank 
heartily; then emptied it, shook the last drops from it, 
and put it again upon his head. 

“Ho, ho, young man!” cried a voice. 

Donal looked, and savV a man in the garb of a clergy- 
man regarding him from the road and wiping his face 
with his sleeve. 

“You should mind,” he continued, “how yon scatter 
your favors.” 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Donal, taking off his cap 
again; “I hadna a notion there was leevin’ cratur near 
me.” 


10 


DONAL GRAN1 . 


“It’s a fine day!”said the minister. 

“It is that, sir !”answered Donal. 

“Which way are you going?” asked the minister, add- 
ing, as if in apology for his seeming curiosity, “You’re a 
scholar, I see!” with a glance toward the book he had left 
open on his stone. 

“Nae sae muckleas I wad fain be, sir,” answered Donal 
— then called to mind a resolve he had made to speak 
English for the future. 

“A modest youth, I see!” returned the clergyman: but 
Donal hardly liked the tone in which he said it. 

“That depends on what you mean by a scholar,” he 
said. 

“Oh!” answered the minister, not thinking much about 
his reply, but in a bantering humor willing to draw the 
lad out, “the learned man modestly calls himself a 
scholar.” 

“Then there was no modesty in saying that I was not so 
much of a scholar as I should like to be; every scholar 
would say the same.” 

“A very good answer!” said the clergyman patroniz- 
ingly. “You’ll be a learned man some day!” And he 
smiled as he said it. 

“When would you call a man learned?” asked Donal. 

“That is hard to determine, seeing those that claim to 
be contradict each other so.” 

“What good, then, can there be in wanting to be 
learned?” 

“You get the mental discipline of study.” 

“It seems to me,” said Donal, “a pity to get a body’s 
discipline on what may be worthless. It’s just as good 
discipline to my teeth to dine on bread and cheese as it 
would be to exercise them on sheep’s grass.” 

“I’ve got hold of a humorist!” said the clergyman to 
himself. 

Donal picked up his wallet and his book, and came 
down to the road. Then first the clergyman saw that he 
was barefooted. In his childhood he had himself often 
gone without shoes and stockings, yet the youth’s lack of 
them prejudiced him against him. 

“It must be the fellow’s own fault!” he said to himself. 
“He shan’t catch me with his chaff!” 

Donal would rather have forded the river and gone to 


DONAL GRANT. 


11 


inquire his way at the nearest farm-house, but he thought 
it polite to walk a little way with the clergyman. 

“How far are you going?” asked the minister at 
length. 

“As far as I can/’ replied Donal. 

“Where do you mean to pass the night?’’ 

“In some barn, perhaps, or on some hillside.” 

“I am sorry to hoar you can do no better.” 

“You don’t think, sir, what a decent bed costs; and a 
barn is generally, a hillside always, clean. In fact the 
hillside’s the best. Many’s the time I have slept on one. 
It’s a strange notion some people have, that it’s more re- 
spectable to sleep under man’s roof than God’s.” 

“To have no settled abode ” said the clergyman, 

and paused. 

“Like Abraham?” suggested Donal with a smile. “An 
abiding city seems hardly necessary to pilgrims and 
strangers! I fell asleep once on the top of Glashgar: 
when I woke the sun was looking over the edge of the 
horizon. I rose and gazed about me as if I were but that 
moment created. If God had called me, I should hardly 
have been astonished.” 

“Or frightened?” asked the minister. 

“No, sir; why should a man fear the presence of his 
Saviour?” 

“You said God /” answered the minister. 

“God is my Saviour! Into his presence it is my desire 
to come.” 

“Under shelter of the atonement,” supplemented the 
minister. 

“Gien ye mean by that, sir,” cried Donal, forgetting 
his English, “onything to come atween my God an’ me, 
I’ll hae nane o’t. I’ll hae naething hide me frae him 
wha made me! I wadna hide a thoucht frae him. The 
waur it is, the mair need he see’t.” 

“What book is that you are reading?’ asked the min- 
ister sharply. “It’s not your Bible, I’ll be bound ! You 
never got such notions from it!” 

He was angry with the presumptuous youth — and no 
wonder; for the gospel the minister preached was a gospel 
but to the slavish and unfilial. 

“It’s Shelley,” answered Donal, recovering himself. 

The minister had never read a word of Shelley, but had 


12 


DONAL GRANT. 


a very decided opinion of him. He gave a loud rnde 
whistle. 

“So! that’s where yon go for your theology! I was 
puzzled to understand you, but now all is plain! Young 
man, you are on the brink of perdition. That book will 
poison your very vitals!” 

“Indeed, sir, it will never go deep enough for that. 
But it came near touching them as I sat eating my bread 
and cheese.” 

“He’s an infidel!” said the minister fiercely. 

“A kind of one,” returned Donal, “but not of the 
worst sort. It’s the people who call themselves believers 
that drive the like of poor Shelley to the mouth of the 
pit.” 

“He hated the truth,” said the minister. 

“He was always seeking after it,” said Donal, “though 
to be sure he didn’t get to the end of the search. Just 
listen to this, sir, and say whether it be very far from 
Christian.” 

Donal opened his little volume and sought his passage. 
The minister but for curiosity and the dread of seeming 
absurd would have stopped his ears and refused to listen. 
He was a man of not merely dry or stale, but of deadly 
doctrines. He would have a man love Christ for protect- 
ing him from God, not for leading him to God, in whom 
alone is bliss, out of whom all is darkness and misery. 
He had not a glimmer of the truth that eternal life is to 
know God. He imagined justice and love dwelling in 
eternal opposition in the bosom of eternal unity. He 
knew next to nothing about God, and misrepresented him 
hideously. If God were such as he showed him, it would 
be the worst possible misfortune to have been created. 

Donal had found the passage. It was in “The Mask of 
Anarchy.” He read the following stanzas: 

“ Let a vast assembly be. 

And with great solemnity 

Declare with measured words that ye 

Are, as God has made ye, free. 

“ Be your strong and simple words 
Keen to wound as sharpened swords. 

And wide as targes let them be, 

With their shade to cover ye. 


DONAL GRANT. 


13 


“ And if then the tyrants dare, 

Let them ride among you there, 

Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew — 

What they like, that let them do. 

“ With folded arms and steady eyes. 

And little fear, and less surprise. 

Look upon them as they slay, 

Till their rage has died away. 

* ‘ And that slaughter to the nation 
Shall steam up like inspiration, 

Eloquent, oracular: 

A volcano heard afar.’’ 

Ending, the reader turned to the listener. But the 
listener had understood little of the meaning, and less of 
the spirit. He hated opposition to the powers on the part 
of any below himself, yet scorned the idea of submitting 
to persecution. 

“What think you of that, sir?™ asked Donal. 

“Sheer nonsense!™ answered the minister. “Where 
would Scotland be now but for resistance?™ 

“There’s more than one way of resisting, though,™ re- 
turned Donal. “Enduring evil was the Lord’s way. I 
don’t know about Scotland, but I fancy there would be 
more Christians, and of a better stamp, in the world, if 
that had been the mode of resistance always adopted by 
those that called themselves such. Anyhow it was his 
way.™ 

“Shelley’s, you mean?” 

“I don’t mean Shelley’s, I mean Christ’s. In spirit 
Shelley was far nearer the truth than those who made him 
despise the very name of Christianity without knowing 
what it really was. But God will give every man fair 
play.™ 

“Young man!” said the minister, with an assumption 
of great solemnity and no less authority, “I am bound 
to warn you that you are in a state of rebellion against 
God, and he will not be mocked. Good-morning!” 

Donal sat down on the roadside — he would let the min- 
ister have a good start of him — took again his shabby 
little volume, held more talk with the book-embodied 
spirit of Shelley, and saw more and more clearly how he 
was misled in his every notion of Christianity, and how 


14 


DONAL GRANT. 


different those who gave him his notions must have been 
from the evangelists and apostles. He saw in the poet 
a boyish nature striving after liberty, with scarce a notion 
of what liberty really was: he knew nothing of the law of 
liberty — oneness with the will of our existence, which 
would have us free with its own freedom. 

When the clergyman was long out of sight he rose and 
went on, and soon came to a bridge by which he crossed 
the river. Then on he went through the cultivated plain, 
his spirits never flagging. He was a pilgrim on his way 
to his divine fate! 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MOOR. 

The night began to descend, and he to be weary and 
look about him for a place of repose. But there was a 
long twilight before him and it was warm. 

For some time the road had been ascending, and by and 
by he found himself on a bare moor, among heather not 
yet in bloom, and a forest of bracken. Here was a great, 
beautiful chamber for him! and what better bed than 
God’s heather; what better canopy than God’s high, star- 
studded night, with its airy curtains of dusky darkness! 
Was it not in this very chamber that Jacob had his vision 
of the mighty stair leading up to the gate of heaven? Was 
it not under such a roof Jesus spent his last nights on the 
earth? For comfort and protection he sought no human 
shelter, but went out into his Father’s house — out under 
his Father’s heaven ! The small and narrow were not to 
him the safe, but the wide and open. Thick walls cover 
men from the enemies they fear; the Lord sought space. 
There the angels come and go more freely than where 
roofs gather distrust. If ever we hear a far-off rumor of 
angel-visit, is it not from some solitary plain with lonely 
children? 

Donal walked along the high table-land till he was 
weary, and rest looked blissful. Then he turned aside 
from the rough track into the heather and bracken. 
When he came to a little dry hollow, with a yet thicker 
growth of heather, its tops almost close as those of his bed 


DOXAL GRANT. 


15 


at his father’s cottage, he sought no further. Taking his 
knife, he cut a quantity of heather and ferns, and heaped 
it on the top of the thickest bush; then creeping in be- 
tween the cut and the growing, he cleared the former 
from his face that he might see the worlds over him, and 
putting his knapsack under his head, fell fast asleep. 

When he woke not even the shadow of a dream lingered 
to let him know that he had been dreaming. He woke 
with such a clear mind, such an immediate uplifting of 
the soul, that it seemed to him no less than to Jacob that 
he must have slept at the foot of the heavenly stair. The 
wind came round him like the stuff of thought nnshaped, 
and every breath he drew seemed like God breathing 
afresh into his nostrils the breath of life. Who knows 
what the thing we call air is? We know about it, hut it 
we do not know. The sun shone as if smiling at the self- 
importance of the sulky darkness he had driven away, and 
the world seemed content with a heavenly content. So 
fresh was Donal’s sense that he felt as if his sleep within 
and the wind without had been washing him all the night. 
So peaceful, so blissful was his heart that it longed to 
share its bliss; but there was no one within sight, and he 
set out again on his journey. 

He had not gone far when he came to a dip in the moor- 
land — a round hollow, with a cottage of turf in the middle 
of it, from whose chimney came a little smoke: there too 
the day was begun! He was glad he had not seen it be- 
fore, for then he might have missed the repose of the open 
night. At the door stood a little girl in a blue frock. 
She saw him and ran in. He went down and drew near 
to the door. It stood wide open, and he could not help 
seeing in. 

A man sat at the table in the middle of the floor, his 
forehead on his hand. Donal did not see his face. He 
seemed waiting, like his father for the Book, while his 
mother got it from the top of the wall. He stepped over 
the threshold, and in the simplicity of his heart said: 

“Ye’ll be gaein’ to hae worship?” 

“Na, na!” returned the man, raising his head, and 
taking a brief, hard stare at his visitor; “we dinna set up 
for prayin’ fowk i’ this hoose. We ley that to them ’at 
kens what they hae to be thaukfu’ for.” 


16 


DONAL QUANT. 


“I made a mistak’,” said Donal. “I thoucht ye micht 
hae been gaein’ to say gude-mornin’ to yer Makker, an’ 
wad bae likit to j’in wi’ ye; for I kenna wbat I haena to 
be thankfu' for. Guid-day to ye.” 

“Ye can bide an’ tak yer parritcb gien ye like.” 

“Ow, na, I thank ye. Ye micht think I cam for the 
parritcb, an’ no for the prayers. I like as ill to be coontit 
a hypocrite as gien I war ane.” 

“Ye can bidean’ hae worship wi’ ’s, gien ye tak the 
buik yersel’.” 

“I canna lead whanr’s nane to follow. Na; I’ll du 
better on the muir my lane.” 

But the gudewife was a religious woman after her 
fashion — who can be after any one else’s? She came with 
a Bible in her hand and silently laid it on the table. 
Donal had never yet prayed aloud except in a murmur 
by himself on the hill, but, thus invited, could not refuse. 
He read a psalm of trouble, breaking into hope at the 
close, then spoke as follows: 

“Freens, I’m but yoong, as ye see, an’ never afore 
daured open my moo i’ sic fashion, but it comes to me to 
speyk, an’ wi’ yer leave speyk I wull. I canna help 
thinkin’ the gude man’s i’ some trible — siclike, maybe, 
as King Dawvid whan he made the psalm I hae been 
readin’ i’ yer hearin’. Ye observt hoo it began like a 
stormy mornin’, but ye h’ard hoo it changed or a’ was 
dune. The sun comes oot bonny i’ the en’, an’ ye hear 
the birds beginnin’ to sing, tollin’ natur’ to gie ower her 
greitin’. An’ what brings the guid man til’s senses, div 
ye think? What but jist the thoucht o’ Him ’at made 
him, ’at cares aboot him, him ’at maun come to ill him- 
sel’ afore he lat onything he made come to ill. Sir, lat’s 
gang doon upo’ oor knees, an’ commit the keepin’ o’ oor 
sowls to him as til a faithfu’ Creator, wha winna miss his 
pairt atween him an’ hiz.” 

They went down on their knees, and Donal said: 

“0 Lord, oor ain Father an’ Saviour, the day ye hae 
sent’s has arrived bonny an’ gran’, an’ we bless ye for 
sen’in’ ’t; but eh, oor Father, we need mair thelicht that 
shines i’ the darker place. We need the dawn o’ a spirit- 
ual day inside ’s, or the bonny dayootside winna gang for 
muckle. Lord, oor micht, speyk a word o’ peacefu’ 
recall to ony dog o’ thine ’at may be worryin’ at the hert 


DONAL GRANT. 


17 


o’ ony sheep o’ thine ’at’s run awa; but dinna ca’ him 
back sae as to lea’ the puir sheep ahint him; fess back 
dog an’ lamb thegither, 0 Lord. Haud ’s a’ frae ill, an’ 
guide ’s a’ to guid, an’ oor mornin’ prayer’s ower. 
Amen.” 

They rose from their knees, and sat silent for a moment. 
Then the guidwife put the pot on the fire with the water 
for the porridge. But Donal rose and walked out of 
the cottage, half-wondering at himself that he had dared 
as he had, yet feeling he had done but the most natural 
thing in the world. 

“Hoo a body’s to win throuw the day wantin’ the lord 
o’ the day an’ the hoor an’ the minute ’s ayont me!” he 
said to himself, and hasteued away. 

Ere noon the blue line of the far ocean rose on the 
horizon. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE TOWH. 

Dohal was queer, some of my readers will think, and I 
admit it; for the man who regards the affairs of life from 
any other point than his own greedy self must be queer 
indeed in the eyes of all who are slaves to their imagined 
necessities and undisputed desires. 

It was evening when he drew nigh the place whither 
he had directed his steps — a little country town, not far 
from a famous seat of learning: there he would make in- 
quiry before going further. The minister of his parish 
knew the minister of Auchars, and had given him a letter 
of introduction. The country around had not a few 
dwellings of distinction, and at one or another of these 
might be children in want of a tutor. 

The sun was setting over the hills behind him as he en- 
tered the little town. At first it looked but a village, for 
on the outskirts, through which the king’s highway led, 
were chiefly thatched cottages, with here and there a 
slated house of one story and an attic; but presently 
began to appear houses of larger size — few of them, how- 
ever, of more than two stories. Most of them looked as if 
they had a long and not very happy history. All at once 
he found himself in a street, partly of quaint gables with 


18 


DONAL GRANT. 


corbel steps: they called them here corbie-steps , in allu- 
sion, perhaps, to the raven sent out by Noah, for which 
lazy bird the children regarded these as places to rest. 
There were two or three curious gateways in it with some 
attempt at decoration, and one house with the pepper-pot 
turrets which Scottish architecture has borrowed from 
the French chateau. The heart of the town was a yet 
narrower, close-built street, with several short closes and 
wynds opening out of it — all of which had ancient-looking 
houses. There were shops not a few, but their windows 
were those of dwellings, as the upper parts of their build- 
ings mostly were. In those shops was as good a supply of 
the necessities of life as in a great town, and cheaper. 
You could not get a coat so well cut, nor a pair of shoes to 
fit you so tight without hurting, but you could get first- 
rate work. The streets were unevenly paved with round, 
water- worn stones: Donal was not sorry that he had not to 
walk far upon them. 

The setting sun sent his shadow before him as he en- 
tered the place. He kept the middle of the street, look- 
ing on this side and that for the hostelry whither he had 
dispatched his chest before leaving home. A gloomy 
building, apparently uninhabited, drew his attention, and 
sent a strange thrill through him as his eyes fell upon it. 
It was of three low stories, the windows defended by iron 
stanchions, the door studded with great knobs of iron. 
A little way beyond he caught sight of the sign he was in 
search of. It swung in front of an old-fashioned, dingy 
building, with much of the old-world look that pervaded 
the town. The last red rays of the sun were upon it, 
lighting up a sorely faded coat of arms. The supporters, 
two red horses on their hind legs, were all of it he could 
make out, The crest above suggested a skate, but could 
hardly have been intended for one. A greedy-eyed man 
stood in the doorway, his hands in his trousers pockets. 
He looked with contemptuous scrutiny at the barefooted 
lad approaching him. He had black hair and black eyes; 
his nose looked as if a heavy finger had settled upon its 
point and pressed it downward: its nostrils swelled wide 
beyond their base; underneath was a big mouth with a 
good set of teeth, and a strong upturning chin — an am- 
bitious and greedy face. But ambition is a form of 
greed. 


BONAL GRANT. 


19 


“A fine day, lan’lord!” said Donal. 

“Ay/’ answered the man, without changing the posture 
of one taking his ease against his own door-post or remov- 
ing his hands from his pockets, but looking Donal up and 
down with conscious superiority, then resting his eyes on 
the bare feet and upturned trousers. 

“This’ll be the Morven Airms, I’m thinkin’?” said 
Donal. 

“It taksna muckle thoucht to think that,*’ returned 
the innkeeper, “whan there they hing!” 

“Ay,” rejoined Donal, glancing up; “there is some- 
thing there — an’ it’s airms I doobtna; but it’s no a’body 
has the preevilege o’ a knowledge o’ heraldry like yersel’, 
lan’lord] I’m b’un’ to confess, for what I ken, they 
micht be the airms o’ ony ane o’ ten score Scots families.” 

There was one weapon with which John Glumm was 
assailable, and that was ridicule — with all his self-suffi- 
ciency he stood in terror of it — and the more covert the 
ridicule, so long as he suspected it, the more he resented 
as well as dreaded it. He stepped into the street, and 
taking a hand from a pocket, pointed up to the sign. 

“See til’t!” he said. “Dinna ye see the twa reid 
horse?” 

“Ay,” answered Donal; “I see them weel eneuch, 
but I’m nane the wiser nor gien they war twa red whauls. 
Man,” he went on, turning sharp round upon the fellow, 
“ve’re no cawpable o’ conceivin’ the extent o’ my igno- 
rance! It’s as rampant as the reid horse upo’ your sign I 
I’ll yield to naebody i’ the amoont o’ things I dinna ken !” 

The man stared at him for a moment. 

“I s’ warran’,” he said, “ye ken mair nor ye care to lat 
on !” 

“An’ what may that be ower the heid o’ them? A 
crest, ca’ ye’t?” said Donal. 

“It’s a base pearl-beset,” answered the landlord. 

He had not a notion of what base meant, or pearl-beset , 
yet prided himself on his knowledge of the words. 

“Eh,” returned Donal, “I took it for a skate!” 

“A skate!” repeated the landlord with offended sneer, 
and turned toward the house. 

“I was thinkin’ to put up wi’ ye the nicht, gien ye 
could accommodate me at a rizzonable rate,” said Donal. 

“I dinna ken,” replied Glumm, hesitating, with his 


20 


DONAL GRANT. 


back to him, between unwillingness to lose a penny and 
resentment at the supposed badinage, which was indeed 
nothing but humor; “what wad ye ca’ rizzonable?” 

“I wadna grudge a saxpence for my bed; a shillin’ I 
wad,” answered Donal. 

“Weel, ninepeuce than — for ye seemna owercome wi’ 
siller.” 

“Na,” answered Donal, “I’m no that. Whatever my 
burden, yon’s no hit. The loss o’ what I hae wad hardly 
mak me lichter for my race.” 

“Ye’re a queer customer!” said the man. 

“I’m no sae queer but I hae a kist cornin’ by the car- 
rier,” rejoined Donal, “direckit to the Morven Airms. 
It'll be here in time, doobtless.” 

“We’ll see whan it comes,” remarked the landlord, 
implying the chest was easier invented than believed in. 

“The warst o’ ’t is,” continued Donal, “I canna weel 
shaw mvsel’ wantin’ shune. I hae a pair i’ my kist, an’ 
anither upo’ my back — but nane for my feet.” 

“There’s sutors enew,” said the innkeeper. 

“Weel, we’ll see as wo gang. I want a word wi’ the 
minister. Wad ye direc’ me to the manse?” 

“He’s frae hame. But it’s o’ sma’ consequence; he 
disna care aboot tramps, honest man! He winna waur 
muckle upo’ the likes o’ you.” 

The landlord was recovering himself — therefore his 
insolence. 

Donal gave a laugh. Those who are content with what 
they are have the less concern about what they seem. 
The ambitious like to be taken for more than they are, 
and may well be annoyed when they are taken for less. 

“I’m thinkin’ ye wadna waur muckle on a tramp 
aither!” he said. 

“I wad not,” answered Glumm. “It’s the pairt o’ the 
honest to discoontenance lawlessness.” 

“Ye wadna hang the puir craturs, wad ye?” asked 
Donal. 

“I wad hang a wheen mair o’ them.” 

“For no haein’ a hoose ower their heids? That’s some 
hard ! What gien ye was ae day to be in want o’ ane yer- 
self !” 

“We’ll bide till the day comes. But what are ye 
stan’in’ there for? Are ye cornin’ in or are ye no?” 


DONAL GRANT. 


21 


“It’s a some cauld welcome!” said Donal. “I s’ jist 
tak a luik aboot afore I mak np my min’. A tramp, ye 
ken, needsna stan’ upo’ ceremony!” 

He turned away and walked further along the street. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE COBBLER. 

At the end of the street he came to a low-arched gate- 
way in the middle of a poor-looking house. Within it sat 
a little bowed man, cobbling diligently at a boot. The 
sun had left behind him in the west a heap of golden ref- 
use, and cuttings of rose and purple, which shone right 
in at the archway, and let him see to work. Here was 
the very man for Donal! A respectable shoemaker would 
have disdained to patch up the shoes he carried — especially 
as the owner was in so much need of them. 

“It’s a bonny nicht,” he said. 

“Ye may weel mak the remark, sir!” replied the cob- 
bler without looking up, for a critical stitch occupied 
him. • “It’s a balmy nicht.” 

“That’s raither a bonny word to put til’t!” returned 
Donal. “There’s a kin’ o’ an air aboot the place I wad 
hardly hae thoucht balmy! But troth it’s no the fau’t o’ 
the nicht!” 

“Ye’re richt there also,” returned the cobbler — his 
use of the conjunction impressing Donal. “Still, the 
weather has to du wi’ the smell — wi’ the mair or less o’ ’t, 
that is. It comes frae a tanneree near by. It’s no an ill 
smell to them ’at’s used til’t; and ye wad hardly believe 
me, sir, but I smell the clover throuw ’t. Maybe I’m 
preejudized, seein’ but for the tan-pits I couldna weel 
drive my trade; but sittin’ here frae mornin’ to nicht, I 
get a kin’ o’ a habit o’ luikin’ oot for my blessin’s. To 
recognize an anld blessin’ ’s ’maist better nor to get a 
new ane. A pair o’ shune weel cobblet ’s whiles full bet- 
ter nor a new pair.” 

“They are that,” said Donal; “but I dinna jist see hoo 
yer seemile applies.” 

“Isna gettin’ on a pair o’ auld weel-kentan’ weel-men’- 
it shune, ’at winna nip yer feet nor yet shochle, like 


22 


DONAL GRANT. 


wankin’ up til a blessin’ ye hae been haem’ for years, only 
ye didna ken’t for ane?” 

As he spoke, the cobbler lifted a little wizened face 
and a pair of twinkling eyes to those of the student, re- 
vealing a soul as original as his own. He was one of the 
inwardly inseparable, outwardly far-divided company of 
Christian philosophers, among whom individuality as well 
as patience is free to work its perfect work. In that glance 
Donal saw a ripe soul looking out of its tent door, ready 
to rush into the sunshine of the new life. 

He stood for a moment lost in eternal regard of the 
man. He seemed to have known him for ages. The 
cobbler looked up again. 

“Ye’ll be wantin’ a han’ frae me i’ my ain line, I’m 
tbinkin’!” he said, with a kindly nod toward Donal’s 
shoeless feet. 

“Sma’ doobt!” returned Donal. “I had scarce startit, 
but was ower far to gang back, whan the sole o’ ae shue 
cam aff, an’ I had to tramp it wi’ baith my ain.” 

“An’ ye thankit the Lord for the auld blessin’ o’ bein’ 
born an’ broucht up wi’ soles o’ yer ain!” 

“To tell the trowth,” answered Donal, “I hae sae mony 
things to be thankfu’ for, it’s but sma’ won’er I forget 
mony an’ o’ them. But noo, an’ I thank ye for the ex- 
hortation, the Lord’s name be praist ’at he gae me feet fit 
for gangin’ upo’!” 

He took his shoes from his back, and untying the string 
that bound them, presented the ailing one to the cobbler. 

“That’s what we may ca’ deith !” remarked the cobbler, 
slowly turning the invalided shoe. 

“Ay, deith it is,” answered Donal; “it’s a sair divorce 
o’ sole an’ body.” 

“It’s a some auld-farrand joke,” said the cobbler, “but 
the fun intil a thing doesna weir oot ony mair nor the 
poetry or the trowth intil’t.” 

“Who will say there was no providence in the loss of 
my shoe-sole!” remarked Donal to himself. “Here I am 
with a friend already!” 

The cobbler was submitting the shoes, first the sickly, 
now the sound one, to a thorough scrutiny. 

“Ye dinna think them worth men’in’, I doobt!” said 
Donal, with a touch of anxiety in his tone. 

“I never thoucht that whaur the leather wad haud the 


DONAL GRANT. 


23 


steik,” replied the cobbler. “But whiles, I confess, Pin 
jist a wheen tribled to ken hoo to chairge for my wark. 
IPs no barely to consider the time it’ll tak me to cloot a 
pair, but what the weirer’s like to get oot o’ them. I 
canna tak mair nor the job ’ill be worth to the weirer. 
An’ yet the warn* the shune, an’ the less to be made o’ 
them, the mair time they tak to mak them worth ony- 
thing ava’ !” 

“Surely ye oucht to he paid in proportion to yourlabor.” 

“I’ that case I wad whiles hae to say till a puir body 
’at hadna anither pair i’ the warl’, ’at her ae pair o’ 
shune wasna worth men’in’; an’ that wad be a hertbrak, 
an’ sair feet forby, to sic as couldna, like yersel’, sir, 
gang upo’ the Lord’s ain shune.” 

“But hoo mak ye a livin’ that w’y?” suggested Donal. 

“Hoots, the Maister o’ the trade sees to my wauges!” 

“An’ wha may he be?” asked Donal, well foreseeing 
the answer. 

“He was never cobbler himsel’, but he was ance car- 
penter; an’ noo he’s liftit up to be heid o’ a’ the trades. 
An’ there’s ae thing he canna bide, an’ that’s close 
parin’.” 

He stopped. But Donal held his peace, waiting; and 
he went on. 

“To them ’at maks little, for reasons good, by their 
neebor, he gies the better wauges whan they gang hame. 
To them ’at maks a’ ’at they can, he says, ‘Ye helpit 
yersel’; helpawa’; ye haeyer reward. Only comena near 
me, for I canna bide ve.’ But aboot thae shune o’ yours, 
I dinna weel ken! They’re wecl eneuch worth duin’ the 
best I can for them; but the morn’s Sunday, an’ what hae 
ye to put on?” 

“Naething — till my kist comes; an’ that, I doobt, 
winna be afore Monday, or maybe the day efter.” 

“An’ ye winna be able to gang to the kirk!” 

“I’m no partic’lar aboot gaein’ to the kirk; but gien I 
wantit to gang, or gien I thoucht I was b’un’ to gang, 
think ye I wad bide at hame ’cause I hadna shune to gang 
in? Wad I fancy the Lord atfrontit wi’ the bare feet he 
made himsel’?” 

The cobbler caught up the worst shoe and began upon 
it at once. 

“Ye s’ hae’t air,” he said, “gien I sit a’ nicht at it! 


24 


DONAL GRANT. 


The ane’ll do till Monday. Ye s’ hae’t afore kirk- 
time, but ye maun come intil the hoose to get it, for the 
fowk wud be scunnert to see me workin’ upo* the Sab- 
bath day. They dinna un’erstan’ ’at the Maister works 
Sunday an’ Setterday — an’ his Father as weel!” 

“Ye dinna think, than, there’s onything wrang in 
men’in’ a pair o’ shune on the Sabbath day?” 

“Wrang! in obeyin’ my Maister, whase is the day, as 
weel’s a’ the days? They wad fain tak it frae the Son o’ 
man, wha’s the lord o’ ’t, but they canna!” 

He looked up over the old shoe with eyes that flashed. 

“But, then — excuse me,” said Donal, “why shouldna ye 
haud yer face til’t, an’ work openly, i’ the name o’ God?” 

“We’re telt naither to du oor gude warks afore men to 
he seen o’ them, nor yet to cast oor pearls afore swine. I 
coont cobblin’ your shune, sir, a far better wark nor gaien’ 
to the kirk, an’ I wadna bae’t seen o’ men. Gien I war 
workin’ for poverty, it wad be anither thing.” 

This last Donal did not understand, but learned after- 
ward what the cobbler meant: the day being for rest, the 
next duty to helping another was to rest himself. To 
work for fear of starving would be to distrust the Father, 
and act as if man lived by bread alone. 

“Whan I think o’ ’t,” he resumed after a pause, “bein’ 
Sunday, I’ll tak them hame to ye. Whaur wull ye be?” 

“That’s what I wad fain hae ye tell me,” answered 
Donal. “I had thoucht to put up at the Morven Airms, 
but there’s something I dinna like aboot the lan’lord. 
Ken ye ony dacent, clean place, whaur they wad gie me 
a room to mysel’, an’ no seek mair nor I could pey them?” 

“We hae a bit roomie oorsel’s,” said the cobbler, “at 
the service o’ ony dacent wayfarin’ man that can stan’ the 
smell an’ put up wi’ oor w’ys. For peyment ye can pey 
what ye think it’s worth. We’re never varra partic’lar.” 

“I tak yer offer wi’ thankfu’ness,” answered Donal. 

“Weel, gang ye in at that door jist afore ye, an’ ye’ll 
see the guidwife — there’s nane ither til see. I wad gang 
wi’ ye mysel’, but I canna, wi’ this shue o’ yours to turn 
intil a Sunday ane!” 

Donal went to the door indicated. It stood wide open; 
for while the cobbler sat outside at his work, his wife 
would never shut the door. He knocked, but there came 
no answer. 


DONAL GRANT. 


25 


“She’s some dull o’ hearin’,” said the cobbler, and 
called her by his own name for her. 

“Doory! Doory!” he said. 

“She canna be ihat deif gien she hears ye!” said Donal; 
for he spoke hardly louder than usual. 

“Whan God gies you a wife, may she be ane to hear yer 
lichtest word!” answered the cobbler. 

Sure enough, he had scarcely finished the sentence, 
when Doory appeared at the door. 

“Did ye cry, guidman?” she said. 

“Na, Doory; I canna say I cried; but I spak, an’ ye, as 
is yer custom, hearkent til my word! Here’s a believin’ 
lad — I’m thinkin’ he maun be a gentleman, but I’m no 
sure; it’s hard for a cobbler to ken a gentleman ’at 
comes til him wantin’ shune; but he may be a gentleman 
for a’ that, an’ there’s nae hurry to ken. He’s welcome 
to me, gien he be welcome to you. Can ye gie him a 
nicht’s lodgin’?” 

“Weel that! an wi’ a’ my hert!” said Doory. “He’s 
welcome to what we hae.” 

Turning, she led the way into the house. 


CHAPTER VI. 

DOORY. 

She was a very small, spare woman, in a blue print with 
little white spots — straight, not bowed like her husband. 
Otherwise she seemed at first exactly like him. But ere 
the evening was over, Donal saw there was no featural 
resemblance between the two faces, and was puzzled to 
understand how the two expressions came to be so like: 
as they sat it seemed in the silence as if they were the 
same person thinking in two shapes and two places. 

Following the old woman, Donal ascended a steep and 
narrow stair which soon brought him to a landing where 
was light, coming mainly through green leaves, for the 
window in the little passage was filled with plants. His 
guide led him into what seemed to him an enchanting 
room— homely enough it was, but luxurious compared to 
what he had been accustomed to. He saw white walls and 
a brown-hued but clean-swept wooden floor, on which 


26 


DONAL GRANT. 


shone a keen-eyed little fire from a low grate. Two easv- 
chairs, covered with some party-colored striped stuff, 
stood one on each side of the fire. A kettle was singing 
on the hob. The white deal table was set for tea — with a 
fat brown teapot, and cups of a gorgeous pattern in bronze, 
that shone in the firelight like red gold. In one of the 
walls was a box-bed. 

“Til lat ye see what accommodation we hae at yer serv- 
ice,, sir,” said Doory, “an’ gien that’ll shuit ye, ye s’ be 
welcome.” 

So saying, she opened what looked like the door of a 
cupboard at the side of the fireplace. It disclosed a neat 
little parlor, with a sweet air in it. The floor was sanded, 
and so much the cleaner than if it had been carpeted. A 
small mahogany table, black with age, stood in the middle. 
On a side table covered with a cloth of faded green lay 
a large family Bible; behind it were a few books and a tea- 
caddy. In the side of the wall opposite the window was 
again a box-bed. To the eyes of the shepherd-born lad, 
it looked the most desirable shelter he had ever seen. 
He turned to his hostess and said: 

“I’m feart it’s ower guid for me. What could ye lat 
me hae’t for by the week? I wad fain bide wi’ ye, but 
whaur an’ whan I may get wark I canna tell; sae I maunna 
tak it ony gait for mail* nor a week.” 

“Mak yersel’ at ease til the morn be by,” said the old 
woman. “Ye canna du naething till that be ower. Upo’ 
the Monday mornin’ we s’ haud a cooncii thegither — you 
an’ me an’ my man; I can du naething wantin’ my man; 
we aye pn’ thegither or no at a’.” 

Well content, and with hearty thanks, Donal com- 
mitted his present fate into the hands of the humble pair, 
his heaven-sent helpers; and after much washing and 
brushing, all that was possible to him in the way of dress- 
ing, reappeared in the kitchen. There tea was ready, and 
the cobbler seated in the window with a book in his hand, 
leaving for Donal his easy-chair. 

“I canna tak yer ain cheir frae ye,” said Donal. 

“Hoots!” returned the cobbler, “what’s onything oors 
for but to gie the neeper ’at stan’s i’ need o’ ’t?” 

“But ye hae had a sair day’s wark!” 

“An’ you a sair day’s traivel!” 

“But I’m yoong!” 


DONAL GRANT. 


27 


“An* I’m auld, an’ my labor the nearer ower. ,, 

“But I’m strong !” 

“There’s nae the less need ye snd be hauden sae. Sit 
ye doon, an’ wastena yer backbane. My business is to 
luik to the bodies o’ men, an’ specially to their puir feet 
’at has to bide the weicht, an’ get sail- pressed therein. 
Life’s as hard upo’ the feet o’ a man as upo’ ony pairt 
o’ ’in! When they gang wrang, there isna muckle to be 
dune till they be set richt again. I’m sair honort,I say to 
inysel’ whiles, to be set ower the feet o’ men. It’s a fine 
ministration! full better than bein’ a doorkeeper i’ the 
hoose o’ the Lord ! For the feet ’at gang oot an’ in at it’s 
mair nor the door!” 

“The Lord be praist!” said Donal to himself; “there’s 
mair i’ the war!’ like my father an’ mither!” 

lie took the seat appointed him. 

“Come to the table, Anerew,” said the old woman, 
“gien sae be ye can pairt wi’ that buik o’ yours, an’ lat 
yer sowl gie place to yer boady’s richts. I doobt, sir, gien 
he wad ait or drink gien I wasna at his elbuck.” 

“Doory,” returned her husband, “ye canna deny I gie 
ye a bit noo an’ than, specially whan I come upo’ ony- 
thing by ord’nar’ tasty!” 

“That ye do, Anerew, or I dinna ken what wud come 
o’ my sowl ony mair nor o’ your boady! Sae ye see, sir, 
we’re like John Sprat an’ his wife: ye’ll ken what the 
bairn? say aboot them?” 

“Ay, fine that,” replied Donal. “Ye couldna weel be 
better fittit.” 

“God grant it!” she said. “But we wad fit better yet 
gien I had but a wheen mair brains.” 

“The Lord kenned what brains ye had whan he broucht 
ye thegither,” said Donal. 

“Ye never uttert a truer word,” replied the cobbler. 
“Gien the Lord be content wi’ the brains he’s gien ye, an’ 
I be content wi’ the brains ye gie me, what richt hae ye to 
be discontentit wi’ the brains ye hae, Doory? answer me 
that. But I s’ come to the table. Wud ye alloo me to 
speir efter yer name, sir?” 

“My name’s Donal Grant,” replied Donal. 

“I thank ye, sir, an’ I’ll haud it in respec’,” returned 
the cobbler. “Maister Grant, wull ye ask a blessin’?” 

“I wad raither j’in i’ your askin’,” replied Donal. 


28 


DONAL GRANT. 


The cobbler said a little prayer, and then they began to 
eat — first of oat-cakes, baked by the old woman, then of 
loaf-breid, as they called it. 

“I’m sorry I hae nae jeally or jam to set afore ye, sir,” 
said Doory; “we’re but semple fowk, ye see — content to 
baud oor earthly taibernacles in a haibitable condition till 
we hae notice to quit.” 

“It’s a fine thing to ken,” said the cobbler, with a queer 
look, “’at whan ye lea’ ’t, yer hoose fa’s doon, an’ ye 
haena to think o’ ony damages to pey — forbv ’at gien it 
laistit ony time efter ye was oot o’ ’t, there micht be a 
wheen deevils takin’ up their abode intil ’t.” 

“Hoot, Anerew!” interposed his wife, “there’ naeth- 
ing like that i’ Scriptur’!” 

“Hoot, Doory!” returned Andrew, “what ken ye 
aboot what’s no i’ Scriptur’? Ye ken a heap, I alloo, 
aboot what’s in Scriptur’, but ye ken little aboot what’s 
no intil ’t!” 

“Weel, isna ’t best to ken what’s intil ’t?” 

“Ayont a doobt.” 

“Weel!” she returned in playful triumph. 

Donal saw that he had got hold of a pair of originals — 
it was a joy to his heart: he was himself an original — one, 
namely, that lived close to the simplicities of existence. 

Andrew Comin, before offering him house-room, would 
never have asked any one what he was; but he would have 
thought it an equal lapse in breeding not to show interest 
in the history as well as the person of a guest. After a 
little more talk, so far from commonplace that the com- 
mon would have found it mirth-provoking, the cobbler 
said : 

“An’ what office may ye haud yersel’, sir, i’ the min- 
istry o’ the temple?” 

“I think I un’erstan’ ye,” replied Donal; “my mother 
says curious things like you.” 

“Curious things is whiles no that curious,” remarked 
Andrew. 

A pause following, he resumed: 

“Gien onything gie ye reason to prefar waitin’ till ye 
ken Doory an’ me a bit better, sir,” he said, “coont my 
ill-mainnert question no speirt.” 

“There’s naething,” answered Donal. “I’ll tell ye 
onything or a’ thing aboot mysel’.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


29 

‘‘Tell what ye wull, sir, an’ keep what ye wull” said 
the cobbler. 

“I was broucht up a herd -laddie, ” proceeded Donal, 
“an’ whiles a shepherd ane. For mony a year I kent 
mair ahoot the hillside nor the ingle-neuk. But it’s the 
same God an’ Father upo’ the hillside an* i’ the king’s 
pailace.” 

“An’ ye’ll ken a’ aboot the win’, an’ the cloods, an’ 
the w’ys o’ God ootside the hoose! I ken something hoo 
he bauds things gaein’ inside the hoose— in a body’s hert, 
I mean — in mine an’ Doory’s there, but I ken little aboot 
the w’y he gars things work ’at he’s no sae far ben in.” 

“Ye dinna surely think God fillsna a’ thing?” exclaimed 
Donal. 

“Na, na, I ken better nor that,” answered the cobbler; 
“but ye maun alloo a tod’s hole’s no sae deep as the thro’t 
o’ a burnin’ m’untain! God himsel’ canna win sae far 
ben in a shallow place as in a deep place; he canna he sae 
far ben i’ the win’s, though he gars them du as he likes, 
as he is, or sud be, i’ your hert an’ mine, sir!” 

“I see!” responded Donal. “Could that hae been hoo 
the Lord had to rebuk the win’s an’ the waves, as gien 
they had been gaein’ at their ain free wull, i’stead o’ the 
wull o’ him ’at made them an’ set them gaein’?” 

“Maybe; but I wud hae to think aboot it afore I an- 
swert,” replied the cobbler. 

A silence intervened. Then said Andrew thoughtfully : 

“fthoucht, when I saw ye first, ye was maybe a lad frae 
a shop i’ the muckle toon — or a clerk, as they ca’ them, 
’at sits makin’ up accoonts.” 

“Na, I’m no that, I thank God,” said Donal. 

“What for thank ye God for that?” asked Andrew. 
“A’ place is his. I wudna hae ye thank God ye’re no a 
cobbler like me! Ye micht, though, for it’s little ye can 
ken o’ the guid o’ the callin’!” 

“I’ll tell ye what for,” answered Donal. “I ken weel 
toon-fowk think it a heap better to hae to du wi’ figures 
nor wi’ sheep, but I’m no o’ their min’; an’ for ae thing, 
the sheep’3 alive. I could weel fancy an angel a shepherd 
— an’ he wad coont my father guid company! Troth, he 
wad want wings an’ airms, an’ feet an’ a’ to luik efter the 
lambs whiles! But gien sic a ane was a clerk in a coontin’ 
hoose, he wad hae to stow awa’ the wings; I cannot see 


30 


DONAL GRANT. 


what use he wad hae for them there. He micht be an 
angel a’ the time, an’ that no a fallen ane, but he bude to 
lay aside something to lit the place. ” 

“But ye’re no a shepherd the noo?” said the cobbler. 

“Na,” replied Donal, “’cep’ it be I’m set to luik efter 
anither grade o’ lamb. A freen’ — ye may ’a’ h’ard his 
name — Sir Gilbert Galbraith — made the beginnin’ o’ a 
scholar o’ me, an’ noo I hae my degree frae the auld uni- 
versity o’ Inverdaur.” 

“Didna I think as muckle!” cried Mistress Comin 
triumphant. “I hadna time to say ’t to ye, Anerew, 
but I was sure he was frae the college, an’ that was hoo 
his feet war sae muckle waur furnisht nor his heid.” 

“I hae a pair o’ shune i’ my kist, though — whan that 
comes!” said Donal, laughing. 

“I only houp it winna be ower muckle to win up oor 
stair!” 

“I dinna think it. But we’ll lea’ ’t i’ the street afore 
it s’ come atween ’s!” said Donal. “Gien ye’ll hae me 
sae lang’s I’m i’ the toon, I s’ gang nae ither gait.” 

“An’ ye’ll doobtless read the Greek like yer mither- 
tongue?” said the cobbler, with a longing admiration in 
his tone. 

“Na, no like that; but weel eneuch to get guid o’ ’t.” 

“Weel, that’s jist the ae thing I grutch ye — na, no 
grutch — I’m glaid ye hae’t — but the ae thing I wud fain 
be a scholar for rnyseP ! To think I kenna a cheep o’ the 
word spoken by the Word himsel’!” 

“But the letter o’ the word he made little o’ comparet 
wi’ the speerit!” said Donal. 

“Ay, that’s true! an’ yet it’s whaur a man may weel be 
greedy, an’ want to hae a’ thing; wha has the speerit wad 
fain hae the letter tu! But it disna maitter; I’s set to 
learnin’ ’t the first thing whan I gang up the stair — that 
is, gien it be the Lord’s wull.” 

“Hoots!” said his wife, “what wad ye du wi’ Greek up 
there! I’s warran’ the fowk there, ay, an’ the maister 
himsel’, speyks plain Scotch! What for no? What wad 
they du there wi’ Greek, ’at a body wad hae to wrastle wi’ 
frae mornin’ to nicht, an’ no mak oot the third pairt 
o’ ’t?” 

Her husband laughed merrily, but Donal said: 

“’Deed maybe ye’re na sae far wrang, guidwife! I’m 


DONAL GRANT. 


31 


thinkin’ there maun be a gran’ mither-tongue there, ’at’ll 
soop up a’ the lave, an’ be better to un’erstan’ nor a body’s 
ain — for it’ll be yet mair his ain.” 

“Hear til him!” cried the cobbler, with hearty appro- 
bation. 

“Ye ken,” Donal went on, “a’ the languages o’ the 
earth cam, or luik as gien they had come, frae ane, though 
we’re no jist dogsure o’ that. There’s my mither’s ain 
Gaelic, for enstance: it’s as auld, maybe aulder nor the 
Greek; onygait, it has mair Greek nor Latin words intil 
’t, an’ ye ken the Greek’s an aulder tongue nor the Latin. 
Weel, gien we could work oor w’v back to the auldest 
grit-gran’mither-tongue o’ a’, I’m thinkin’ it wad come a 
kin’ o’ sae easy til’s, ’at, wi’ the impruvt faculties o’ oor 
h’-avenly condition, we micht be able in a feow days to haud 
communication wi’ ane anither i’ that same, ohn stam- 
mert or hummt an’ hawt.” 

“But there’s been sic a heap o’ things f’un’ oot sin’ 
syne, i’ the min’ o’ man, as weel’s i’ the warl’ ootside,” 
said Andrew, “that sic a language wad be mair like a 
bairn’s tongue nor a mither’s, I’m thinkin’, whan set 
against a’ ’at wad be to speyk aboot!” 

“Ye’re verra richt there, I dinna doobt. But hoo easy 
wad it be for ilk ane to bring in the new word he wantit, 
haein’ eneuch common afore to explain ’t wi’! Afore 
lang the language wad hae intil ’t ilka word ’at was worth 
haein’ in ony language ’at ever was spoken sin’ the toor 
o’ Babel.” - 

“Eh, sirs, but it’s dreidfu’ to think o’ haein’ to learn 
sae muckle!” said the old woman. “I’m ower auld an’ 
dottlet!” 

Her husband laughed again. 

“I dinna see what ye hae to lauch at!” she said, laugh- 
ing too. “Ye’ll be dottlet yersel’ gien ye live lang 
eneuch !” 

“I’m thinkin’,” said Andrew, “but I dinna ken — ’at it 
maun be a man’s ain wyte gien age maks him dottlet. 
Gien he’s aye been haudin’ by the trowth, I dinna think 
he’ll fin’ the trowth hasna hauden bj him. But what I 
was lauchin’ at was the thoucht o’ onybody bein’ auld up 
there. We’ll a’ be yoong there, lass!” 

“It sail be as the Lord wulls,” returned his wife. 

“It sail. We want nae mair; an’, eh, we want nae 
less!” responded her husband. . . • 


32 


DONAL GRANT. 


So the evening wore away. The talk was to the very 
mind of Donal, who never loved wisdom so much as when 
she appeared in peasant-garb. In that garb he had first 
known her, and in the form of his mother. 

“I won’er,” said Doory at length, “’at yoong Eppy’s 
no puttin’ in her appearance ! I was sure o’ her the nicht : 
she hasna been near ’s a’ the week!” 

The cobbler turned to Donal to explain. He would 
not talk of things their guest did not understand; that 
would be like shutting him out after taking him in! 

“Yoong Eppv’s a gran’child, sir — the only ane we hae. 
She’s a weel-behavet lass, though ta’en up wi’ the tilings 
o’ this warl’ mair nor her grannie an’ me could wuss. 
She’s in a place no far frae here — no an easy ane, maybe, 
to gie satisfaction in, but she’s duin’ no that ill.” 

“Hoot, Anerew! she’s duin’ jist as well as ony lassie o’ 
her years could in justice be expeckit,” interposed the 
grandmother. “It’s seldom the Lord sets auld heid upo’ 
yoong shoothers.” 

The words were hardly spoken when a light foot was 
heard coming up the stair. 

“But here she comes to answer for hersel’!” she added 
cheerily. 

The door of the room opened, and a good-looking girl 
of about eighteen came in. 

“Weel, yoong Eppy, hoo’s a’ wi’ ye?” said the old man. 

The grandmother’s name was Elspeth, and the grand- 
daughter’s had therefore always the prefix. 

“Brawly, thank ye, gran’father,” she answered. 
“Hoo’s a’ wi’ yersel’?” 

“Ow, weel cobblet!” he replied. 

“Sit ye doon,” said the grandmother, “by the spark 
o’ fire; the nicht’s some airy like ” 

“Na, grannie, I want nae fire,” said the girl. “I hae 
run a’ the ro’d to get a glimp’ o’ ye afore the week was 
oot.” 

“Hoo’s things gaein’ up at the castel?” 

“Ow, sic-like’s usual — only the hoosekeeper’s some 
dowy, an’ that puts mair upo’ the lave o’ ’s: whan she’s 
weel she’s no ane to spare hersel’ — or ither fowk aitber! 
I wadna care, gien she wud but lippen til a body!” con- 
cluded young Eppy, with a toss of her head. 

“We maunna speyk evil o’ dignities, yoong Eppy!” 
said the cobbler, with a twinkle in his eye. 


DONAL GRANT. 


33 


“Ca’ ye Mistress Brookes a dignity, gran’father?” said 
the girl, with a laugh that was nowise rude. 

“I do, ” he answered. “Isna she ower ye? Haena ye 
to do as she tells ye? Atween her an’ you that’s eneuch: 
she’s ane o’ the dignities spoken o’.” 

“I winna dispute it. But, eh, it’s queer wark yon’er!” 

“Tak ye care, yoong Eppy! we maun haud oor tongues 
aboot things committit till oor trust. Ane peyt to serve 
in a hoose mauuna tre’t. the affairs o’ that hoose as gien 
they war her ain.” 

“It wad be weel gien a’body aboot the hoose was as 
partic’lar as ye wad hae me, gran’father !” 

“Hoo’s my lord, lass?” 

“Ow, muckle the same — aye up the stair an’ doon the 
stair the forepairt o’ the nicht, an’ maist inveesible a’ 
day.” 

The girl cast a shy glance now and then at Donal, as if 
she claimed him on her side, though the older people must 
be humored. Donal was not too simple to understand her: 
he gave her look no reception. Bethinking himself that 
they might have matters to talk about, he rose, and turn- 
ing to his hostess, said: 

“Wi’yer leave, gudewife, I wad gang to my bed. I hae 
traivelt a maitter o’ thirty mile the day upo’ my bare 
feet.” 

“Eh, sir!” she answered: “I oucht to hae considert 
that! Come, yoong Eppy, we maun get the gentleman’s 
bed made up for him.” 

With a toss of her pretty head, Eppy followed her grand- 
mother to the next room, casting a glance behind her 
that seemed to ask what she meant by calling a lad with- 
out shoes or stockings a gentleman. Not the less readily 
or actively, however, did she assist her grandmother in 
preparing the tired wayfarer’s couch. In a few minutes 
they returned, and telling him the room was quite ready 
for him, Doory added a hope that he would sleep as sound 
as if his own mother had made the bed. 

He heard them talking for awhile after the door was 
closed, but the girl soon took her leave. He was just fall- 
ing asleep in the luxury of conscious repose, when the 
sound of the cobbler’s hammer for a moment roused him, 
and he knew the old man was again at work on his behalf. 
A moment more and he was too fast asleep for any Cy- 
clop’s hammer to wake him. 


34 


DONAL GRANT. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A SUNDAY. 

Notwithstanding his weariness Donal woke early, for 
he had slept thoroughly. He rose and dressed himself, 
drew aside the little curtain that shrouded the window, 
and looked out. It was a lovely morning. His prospect 
was the curious old main street of the town. The sun 
that had shone into it was now shining from the other 
side, but not a shadow of living creature fell upon the 
rough stones. Yes — there was a cat shooting across them 
like the culprit he probably was. If there was a garden to 
the house, he would go and read in the fresh morning air. 

He stole softly through the outer room, and down the 
stair; found the back door and a water-butt; then a gar- 
den consisting of two or three plots of flowers well cared 
for; and ended his discoveries with a seat surrounded and 
almost canopied with honeysuckle, where doubtless the 
cobbler sometimes smoked his pipe. “Why does he not 
work here rather than in the archway?” thought Donal. 
But, dearly as he loved flowers and light and the free air 
of the garden, the Old cobbler loved the faces of his kind 
better. His prayer for forty years had been to be made 
like his Master; and if that prayer was not answered, how 
was it that, every year he lived, he found himself loving 
the faces of his fellows more and more? Ever as they 
passed, instead of interfering with his contemplations, 
they gave him more and more to think : were these faces, 
he asked, the symbols of a celestial language in which 
God talked to him? 

Donal sat down and took his Greek Testament from his 
pocket. But all at once, brilliant as was the sun, the light 
of his life went out, and the vision rose of the gray quarry, 
and the girl turning from birr* in tbe wan moonlight. Then 
swift as thought followed the vision of the women weeping 
about the forsaken tomb; and with his risen Lord be rose 
also — into a region far “above the smoke and stir of this 
dim spot,” a region where life is good even with its sor- 
row. The man who sees his disappointment beneath him 
is more blessed than he who rejoices in fruition. Then 
prayer awoke, and in the light of that morning of peace 
he drew nigh the Living One, and knew him as the source 


DONAL GRANT. 


35 


of his being. Weary with blessedness he leaned against 
the shadowing honeysuckle, gave a great sigh of content, 
smiled, wiped his eyes, and was ready for the day and what 
it should bring. But the bliss went, not yet: he sat for 
awhile in the joy of conscious loss in the higher life. 
With his meditations and feelings mingled now and then 
a few muffled blows of the cobbler’s hammer: he was once 
more at work on his disabled shoe. 

“Here is a true man!” he thought, “a Godlike helper 
of his fellow !” 

When the hammer ceased, the cobbler was stitching; 
when Donal ceased thinking, he went on feeling. Again 
and again came a little roll of the cobbler’s drum, giving 
glory to God by doing his will: the sweetest and most 
acceptable music is that which rises from work a-doing; 
its incense ascends as from the river in its flowing, from 
the wind in its blowing, from the grass in its growing. 
All at once he heard the voices of two women in the next 
garden, close behind him, talking together. 

“Eh,” said one, “there’s that godless cratur, An’rew 
Comin, at his wark again upo’ the Sawbath mornin’!” 

“Ay, lass,” answered the other, “I hear him! Eh, but 
it’ll be an ill day for him whan he has to appear afore the 
Jeedgeo’a’! He winna hae his comman’ments broken 
that gait!” 

“Troth, na!” returned the former; “it’ll be a sair 
sattlin’ day for him !” 

Donal rose, and looking about him, saw two decent, 
elderly women on the other side of the low stone wall. 
He was approaching them with the request on his lips to 
know which of the Lord’s commandments they supposed 
the cobbler to be breaking, when, seeing that he must 
have overheard them, they turned their backs and walked 
away. 

And now his hostess, having discovered he was in the 
garden, came to call him to breakfast — the simplest of 
meals — porridge, with a cup of tea after it because it was 
Sunday, and there was danger of sleepiness at the kirk. 

“Yer shune’s waitin’ ye, sir,” said the cobbler. “Ye’ll 
fin’ them a better job nor ye expeckit. They’re a better 
job, onygait, nor I expeckit!” 

Donal made haste to put them on, and felt dressed for 
the Sunday. 


36 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Are ye gaein’ to the kirk the day, Anerew?” asked 
the old woman, adding, as she turned to their guest, “my 
man’s raither pecooliar aboot ga in’ to the kirk. Some 
days he’ll gang three times, an’ some days he winna gang 
ance. He kens himsel’ what for,” she added with a 
smile, whose sweetness confessed that, whatever was the 
reason, it was to her the best in the world. 

“Ay, I’m gaein’ the day: I want to gang wi’ oor new 
freen’,” he answered. 

“I’ll tak him gien ye dinna care to gang,” rejoined his 
wife. 

“Ow, I’ll gang!” he persisted. “It’ll gie’s something 
to talk aboot, an’ sae ken ane anither better, an’ maybe 
come a bit nearer ane anither, an’ sae a bit nearer the 
Maister. That’s what we’re here for — cornin’ an’ gaein’.” 

“As ye please, Anerew. What’s richt to you’s aye 
richt to me. O’ my ain sel’ I wad be doobtfu’ o’ sic a 
rizzon for gaein’ to the kirk — to get something to speyk 
aboot.” 

“It’s a gude rizzon whaur ye haena a better,” he an- 
swered. “It’s aften I get at the kirk naething but what 
angers me — lees an’ lees agen my Lord an’ my God. But 
whan there’s ane to talk it ower wi’, ane ’at has some care 
.for God as weel’s for himsel’, there’s some guid sure to 
come oot o’ ’t — some revelation o’ the real richteousness 
— no what fowk ’at gangs by the ministers ca’s richteous- 
ness. Is yer shune comfortable to yer feet, sir?” 

“Ay, that they are! an’ I thank yo: they’re full better 
nor new.” 

“Weel, we winna hae worship this mornin’; whan ye 
gang to the kirk it’s like aitin’ mair nor’s guid for ye.” 

“Hoots, Anerew! ye dinna think a body can hae ower 
muckle o’ the Word!” said his wife, anxious as to the im- 
pression he might make on Donal. 

“Ow na, gien a body tak it in an’ disgeist it! But it’s 
no a bonny thing to hae the word stickin’ about yer moo’, 
an’ baggin’ oot yer pooches, no to say lyin’ cauld upo’ 
your stamack, an’ it for the life o’ men. The less ye 
talk abune what ye put in practice the better; an’ gien the 
thing said hae naething to du wi’ practice, the less ye 
heed it the better. Gien ye hae dune yer brakfast, sir, 
we’ll gang — no ’at it’s freely kirk time yet, but the Sab- 
bath’s ’maist the only day I get a bit o’ a walk, an’ gien 


DONAL GRANT. 


37 


ye hae nae objection til a turn aboot the Lord’s muckle 
boose afore we gang intil his little ane — we ca’ ’t his, but 
1 doobt it — I’ll be ready in a meenute.” 

Donal willingly agreed, and the cobbler, already clothed 
in part of his Sunday best, a pair of corduroy trousers of 
a mouse color, having indued an ancient tail-coat of blue 
with gilt buttons, they set out together; and for their 
conversation, it was just the same as it would have been 
any other day: where every day is not the Lord’s, the 
Sunday is his least of all. 

They left the town, and were soon walking in meadows 
through which ran a clear river, shining and speedy in the 
morning sun. Its banks were largely used for bleaching, 
and the long lines of white in the lovely green of the 
natural grass were pleasant both to eye and mind. All 
about, the rooks were feeding in peace, knowing their 
freedom that day from the persecution to which, like all 
other doers of good, they are in general exposed. Beyond 
the stream lay a level plain stretching toward the sea, 
divided into numberless fields, and dotted with farm- 
houses and hamlets. On the side where the friends were 
walking, the ground was more broken, rising in places 
into small hills, many of them wooded. Half a mile away 
was one of a conical shape, on whose top towered a castle. 
Old and gray and sullen, it lifted itself from the foliage 
around it like a great rock from a summer sea, and stood 
out against the clear blue sky of the June morning. The 
hill was covered with wood, mostly rather young, but at 
the bottom were some ancient firs and beeches. At the 
top, round the base of the castle, the trees were chiefly 
delicate birches with moonlight skin, and feathery larches 
not thriving over well. 

“What ca’ they yon castel?” questioned Donal. “It 
maun be a place o’ some importance.” 

“They maistly ca’ ’t jist the castel,” answered the 
cobbler. “Its auld name’s Graham’s Grip. It’s Lord 
Morven’s place, an’ they ca’ ’t Castle Graham: the family 
name’s Graham, ye ken. They ca’ themsel’s Graeme- 
Graham — jist twa w’ys o’ spellin’ the name putten the- 
gither. The last lord, no upo’ the main brainch, they tell 
me, spelled his name wi’ the diphthong, an’ wasna willin’ 
to gie’t up a’thegither — sae tuik the twa o’ them. Yon’s 
whaur yoong Eppy’s at service. An’ that min’s me, sir, 


38 


DONAL GRANT, 


ye haena tell’t me yet what kin’ o’ a place ye wad hae yer- 
seP. It’s no ’at a puir bndy like me can help, but it’s aye 
weel to lat fowk ken what ye’re efter. A word gangs 
speirin’ lang efter it’s oot o’ sicht — an’ the answer may 
come frae far. The Lord whiles brings aboot things i’ the 
maist oonlikelv fashion.” 

“I’m ready "for onything I’m fit to do,” said Donal; 
“but I hae had what’s ca’d a good education — though I 
hae learned mair frae my ain needs than frae a’ my buiks; 
sae I wad raither till the human than the earthly soil, 
takin’ mair interest i’ the schoolmaister’s craps than i’ 
the fairmer’s.” 

“Wad ye objec’ to maister ane by himsel’ — or maybe 
twa?” 

“Na, surely — gien I saw mysel’ fit.” 

“Eppy mentiont last nicht ’at there was a word aboot 
the castel o’ a tutor for the yoongest. Hae ye ony w’y o’ 
approachin’ the place?” 

“Not till the minister comes home,” answered Donal. 
“I have a letter to him.” 

“He’ll be back by the middle o’ the week, I hear them 
say.” 

“Can you tell me anything about the people at the 
castle?” asked Donal. 

“I could,” answered Andrew; “but some things is bet- 
ter f’un’ oot nor kenned aforehan’. Ilka place has its 
ain shape, an’ maist things has to hae some parin’ to gar 
them fit. That’s what I tell yoong Eppy — mony’s the 
time.” 

Here he came to a pause, and when Andrew spoke 
again, it seemed on a new line. 

“Did it ever occur to you, sir,” he said, “’at maybe 
deith micht be the first waukin’ to some fowk?” 

“It has occurrt to me,” answered Donal; “but mony 
things come intil a body’s heid ’at he’s no able to think 
oot! They maun lie an’ bide their time.” 

“Lat nane o’ the lovers o’ law an’ letters perswaud ye 
the Lord wadna hae ye think — though nane but him ’at 
obeys can think wi’ safety. We maun do first the thing 
’at we ken, an’ syne we may think aboot the thing ’at we 
dinna ken. I fancy ’at whiles the Lord wadna say a thing 
jist no to stop fowk thinkin’ aboot it. He was aye at 
gettin’ them to mak use o’ the can’le o’ the Lord. It’s 


DONAL GRANT. 


39 


my belief the main obstacles to the growth o’ the kingdom 
are first the oonbelief o’ believers, an’ syne the w’y ’at 
they lay doon the law. Afore they hae learnt the rudi- 
men’s o’ the trowth themsel’s, they begin to lay the 
grievous burden o’ their dullness an’ ill-conceived notions 
o’ holy things upo’ the min’s an’ consciences o’ their 
neebors, fain, ye wad think, to haud them frae growin’ 
ony mair nor themsel’s. Eh, man, but the Lord’s won’er- 
ful! Ye may daur an’ daur, an’ no come i’ sicht o’ ’im!” 

The church stood a little way out of the town, in a 
churchyard overgrown with grass, which the wind blew 
like a field of corn. Many of the stones were out of sight 
in it. The church, a relic of old Catholic days, rose out 
of it like one that had taken to growing and so got the 
better of his ills. They walked into the musty, dingy, 
brown-atmosphered house. The cobbler led the way to a 
humble place behind a pillar; there Doory was seated wait- 
ing them. The service was not so dreary to Donal as 
usual; the sermon had some thought in it; and his heart 
was drawn to a man who would say he did not understand. 

‘‘Yon was a fine discoorse,” remarked the cobbler as 
they went homeward. 

Donal saw nothing fine in it, but his experience was not 
so wide as the cobbler’s: to him the discourse had hinted 
many things which had not occurred to Donal. 

Some people demand from the householder none but 
new things, others none but old; whereas we need in 
truth of all the sorts in his treasury. 

“I haena a doobt it was a’ richt an’ as ye say, Anerew,” 
said his wife; “but for mysel’ I could mak naither heid 
nor tail o’ ’t.” 

“I saidna, Doory, it was a’ richt,” returned her hus- 
band; “that would be to say a heap for onything human; 
but it was a guid honest sermon.” 

“What was yon ’at he said aboot the mirracles no bein’ 
teeps?” asked his wife. 

“It was God’s trowth ’at he said.” 

“Gie me a share o r the same, I beg o’ ye, Anerew 
Oomin.” 

“What the man said was this — ’at the sea ’at Peter 
gaed oot upo’ wasna first an’ foremost to be luikit upon as 
a teep o’ the inward an’ spiritual troubles o’ tne believer, 
still less o’ the troubles o’ the Church o’ Christ. The 


40 


BONAL GRANT. 


Lord deals wi’ fac’s nane the less ’at they canna help 
bein’ teeps. Here was terrible fac’s to Peter. Here was 
angry watter an’ roarin’ win’; here was danger an’ fear; 
the man had to trust or gang doon. Gien the hoose be 
on fire we maun trust; gien the watter gang ower oor 
heids we maun trust; gien the horse rin awa’, we maun 
trust. Him ’at canna trust in siclike conditions, I wadna 
gie a plack for ony ither kin’ o’ faith he may hae. God’s 
nae a mere thoucht i’ the warl’ o’ thoucht, but a leevin’ 
pooer in a’ warl s alike. Him ’at gangs to God wi’ a sair 
heid ’ill the suner gang til ’im wi’ a sair hert; an’ them 
’at thinksna he cares for the pains o’ their bodies ’ill ill 
believe he cares for the doobts an’ perplexities o’ their 
inquirin’ speerits. To my min’ he spak the best o’ 
sense!” 

“I didna hear him say onything like that!” said Donal. 

‘‘Did ye no? Weel, I thoucht it cam frae him to me!” 

“Maybe I wasna giein’ the best heed,” said Donal. 
“But what ye say is as true as the sun. It stan’s to 
rizzon.” 

The day passed in pleasure and quiet. Donal had 
found another father and mother. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE GATE. 

The next day, after breakfast, Donal said to his host: 

“Noo I maun pey ye for mv shune, for gien I dinna pey 
at ance, I canna tell hoo muckle to ca’ my ain, an’ what I 
hae to gang by till I get mair.” 

“Na, na,” returned the cobbler. “There’s jist ae 
preejudice I hae left concernin’ theSawbath day; I firmly 
believe it a preejudice, for siller’s the Lord’s tu, but I 
canna win ower it: I canna bring mysel’ to tak siller for 
ony wark dune upo’ ’t. Sae ye maun jist be content to 
lat that flee stick to the Lord’s wa’. Ye’ll do as muckle 
for me some day.” 

“There’s naething left me but to thank ye,” said 
Donal. “There’s the ludgin’ an’ the boord, though — I 
maun ken aboot them afore we gang further.” 

“They’re nane o’ my business,” replied Andrew. “I 


DONAL GRANT. 


41 


lea’ a’ that to the guidwife, an* I coonsel ye to du the 
same. She’s a capital manager, an’ winna chairge ye 
ower muckle.” 

Donal could not but yield, and presently went out for a 
stroll 

He wandered along the bank of the river till he came 
to the foot of the hill on which stood the castle. Seeing 
a gate, he approached it, and finding it open went in. 
A slow-ascending drive went through the trees round and 
round the hill. He followed it a little way. An aromatic 
air now blew and now paused as he went. The trees 
seemed climbing up to attack the fortress above, which he 
could not see. When he had gone a few yards out of sight 
of the gate, he threw himself down among them and fell 
into a reverie. The ancient time arose before him, when, 
without a tree to cover the approach of an enemy, the 
castle rose defiant and bare in its strength, like an athlete 
stripped for the fight, and the little town huddled close 
under its protection. What wars had there blustered, 
what rumors blown, what fears whispered, what sorrows 
moaned! But were there not now just as many evils as 
then? Let the world improve as it may, the deeper ill 
only breaks out afresh in new forms. Time itself, the 
staring, vacant, unlovely time, is to many the one dread 
foe. Others have a house empty and garnished, in which 
neither love nor hope dwells. A self, with no God to 
protect from it, a self unrulable, insatiable, makes of 
existence to some the hell called madness. Godless man 
is a horror of the unfinished — a hopeless necessity for the 
unattainable. The most discontented are those who have 
all the truthless heart desires. 

Thoughts like these were coming and going in Donal’s 
brain, when he heard a slight sound somewhere near him 
— the lightest of sounds indeed — the turning of the leaf of 
a book. He raised his head and looked, but could see no 
one. At last, up through the tree-boles on the slope of 
the hill, he caught the shine of something white: it was 
the hand that held an open book. He took it for the 
hand of a lady. The trunk of a large tree hid the reclin- 
ing form. He would go back. There was the lovely 
cloth-striped meadow to lie in. 

He rose quietly, but not quietly enough to steal away. 
From behind the tree a young man, rather tall and 


42 


DONAL GRANT. 


slender, rose and came toward him. Donal stood to re- 
ceive him. 

“I presume you are unaware that these grounds are not 
open to the public?’’ he said, not without a touch of 
haughtiness. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Donal. “I found the 
gate open, and the shade of the trees was enticing.” 

“It is of no consequence,” returned the youth, now 
with some condescension; “only my father is apt to be 
annoyed if he sees any one ” 

He was interrupted by a cry from further up the hill: 

“Oh, there you are, Percy!” 

“And there you are, Davie !” returned the youth kindly. 

A boy of about ten came toward them precipitately, 
jumping stumps and darting between stems. 

“Take care, take care, Davie!” cried the other: “you 
may slip on a root and fall !” 

“Oh, I know better than that! But you are engaged.” 

“Not in the least. Come along.” 

Donal lingered: the youth had not finished his speech. 

“I went to Arkie,” said the boy, “but she couldn’t 
help me. I can’t make sense of this. I wouldn’t care if 
it wasn’t a story.” 

He had an old folio under one arm, with a finger of the 
other hand in its leaves. 

“It is a curious taste for a child!” said the youth, turn- 
ing to Donal, in whom he had recognized the peasant- 
scholar: “this little brother of mine reads' all the dull old 
romances he can lay his hands on.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Donal, “they are the only fictions 
within his reach : Could you not turn him loose upon Sir 
Walter Scott?” 

“A good suggestion!” he answered, casting a keen 
glance at Donal. 

“Will you let me look at the passage?” said Donal to 
the boy, holding out his hand. 

The boy opened the book, and gave it him. On the 
top of the page Donal read: “The Countess of Pem- 
broke’s Arcadia.” He had read of the book, but had never 
seen it. 

“That’s a grand book!” he said. 

“Horribly dreary,” remarked the elder brother. 

The younger reached up and laid his finger on the page 
next him. 


DONAL GRANT. 


43 


“There, sir!” he said; “that is the place: do tell me 
what it means. ” 

“I will try,” answered Donal; “I may not be able.” 

He began to read at the top of the page. 

“That’s not the place, sir!” said the boy. “It is 
there.” 

“I must know something of what goes before it first,” 
returned Donal. 

“Oh, yes, sir; I see!” he answered, and stood silent. 

He was a fair-haired boy, with ruddy cheeks and a 
healthy look — sweet-tempered evidently. 

Donal presently saw both what the sentence meant and 
the cause of his difficulty. He explained the thing to 
him. 

“Thank you! thank you! Now I shall get on!” he 
cried, and ran up the hill. 

“You seem to understand boys,” said the brother. 

“I have always had a sort of ambition to understand 
ignorance.” 

" “Understand ignorance?” 

“You know what queer shapes the shadows of the 
plainest things take: I never seem to understand any- 
thing till I understand its shadow.” 

The youth glanced keenly at Donal. 

“I wish I had had a tutor like you,” he said. 

“Why?” asked Donal. 

“I should have done better. Where do you live?” 

Donal told him he was lodging with Andrew Comin, 
the cobbler. A silence followed. 

“Good-morning!” said the youth. 

“Good-morning, sir!” returned Donal, and went away. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE MORVEX ARMS. 

Ox Wednesday evening Donal went to the Morven Arms 
to inquire for the third time if his box was come. The 
landlord said, if a great heavy tool -chest was the thing he 
expected, it had come. 

“Donal Grant wad be the name upo-’t,” said Donal. 

“’Deed, 1 didna luik,” said the landlord. “It’s i’ the 
back yard.” 


44 


DONAL GRANT. 


As Donal went through the house to the yard, he 
passed the door of a room where some of the townsfolk 
sat, and heard the earl mentioned. 

He had not asked Andrew anything about the young 
man he had spoken with; for he understood that his host 
held himself not at liberty to talk about the family in 
which his granddaughter was a servant. But what was 
said in public he surely might hear! He requested the 
landlord to let him have a bottle of ale, and went into the 
room and sat down. 

It was a decent parlor with a sanded floor. Those 
assembled were a mixed company from town and country, 
having a tumbler of whisky-toddy together after the 
market. One of them was a stranger who had been re- 
ceiving from the others various pieces of information 
concerning the town and its neighborhood. 

“I min’ the auld man weel,” a wrinkled, gray-haired 
man was saying as Donal entered, “a varra different 
man frae this present, He wud sit doon as ready as no — 
that wud he— wi’ ony puir body like mysel’, an’ gie him 
his cracks, an’ hear his news, an’ drink his glaiss, an’ mak 
naeching o’ ’t. But this man, haith! wha ever saw him 
cheenge word wi’ brither man?” 

“I never h’ard hoo he came to the teetle: they say he 
was but some far-awa’ cousin,” remarked a farmer-look- 
ing man, florid and stout. 

“Hoots! he was ain brither to the last yerl, wi’ richt to 
the teetle, though nane to the property. That he’s but 
takin’ care o’ till his niece come o’ age. He was a heap 
aboot the place afore his brither deed, an’ they war freen’s 
as weol ’s brithers. They say ’at the Lady Arctoora — 
h’ard ye ever sic a hathenish name for a lass! — is b’un’ to 
merry the yoong lord. There’s a sicht o’ clapper-clash 
aboot the place, an’ the fowk, an’ their strange w'ys. They 
tell me nane can be said to ken the yerl but his ain man. 
For mysel’ I never cam i’ their coonsel — no’ even to the 
buyin’ or sellin’ o’ a lamb.” 

“Weel,” said a fair-haired, pale-faced man, “we ken 
frae Scriptur’ ’at the sins o’ the fathers is veesitit upo’ 
the children to the third an’ fourth generation — an’ wha 
can tell?” 

“Wha can tell,” rejoined another, who had a judicial 
k>ok about him., in spite of an unshaven beard and a 
certain general disregard to appearances, “wha can tell 


DONAL GRANT. 


45 


but the sins o’ oor faithers may be lyin’ upo’ some o’ 
oorsel’s at this varra moment?” 

“In oor case, I canna see the thing wad be fair,” said a 
fifth: “we dinna even ken what they did!” 

“We’re no to interfere wi’ the wall o’ the Almichty,” 
rejoined the former. “It gangs its ain gait, an’ mortal 
canna tell what that gait is. His justice winna be con- 
tert.” 

Donal felt that to be silent now would be to decline 
witnessing. He feared argument, lest he should fail and 
wrong the right, but he must not therefore hang back. 
He drew his chair toward the table. 

“Wad ye lat a stranger put in a word, freen’s?” he 
said. 

“Ow, ay, an’ welcome! We setna up for the men o’ 
Gotham.” 

“Weel, I wad speir a question gien I may.” 

“Speir awa\ Answer I winna insure,” said the man 
unshaven. 

“Weel, wad ye please tell me what ye ca’ the justice o’ 
God?” 

“Onybody could tell ye that: it consists i’ the punish- 
ment o’ sin. He gies ilka sinner what his sin deserves.” 

“That seems to me an unco ae-sidit definition o’ jus- 
tice.” 

“Weel, what wad ye mak o’ ’t?” 

“I wad say justice means fair play; an’ the justice o’ 
God lies i’ this, ’at he gies ilka man, beast, an’ deevil fair 
play.” 

“I’m doobtfu’ aboot that!” said a drover-looking fellow. 
“We maun gang by the word; an’ the word says he 
veesits the ineequities o’ the fathers upo’ the children to 
the third an’ fourth generation: I never could see the fair 
play o’ that!” 

“Dinna ye meddle wi’ things, John, ’at ye dinna 
un’erstan’; ye may wauk i’ the wrang box!” said the old 
man. 

“I want to un’erstan’,” returned John. “I’m no saym’ 
he disna du richt; I’m only sayin’ I canna see the fair 
play o’ ’t.” 

“It may weel be richt an’ you no see ’t!” 

“Ay, weel that! But what for sud I no say I dinna 
see ’t? Isna the blin’ man to say he’s blin’?” 


46 


DONAL GRANT. 


This was unanswerable, and Donal again spoke. 

“It seems to me,” he said, “we need first to un’erstan’ 
what’s conteened i’ the veesitin’ o’ the sins o’ the fathers 
upo’ the children, afore we daur ony jeedgment concernin’ 
’t.” 

“Ay, that’s sense eneuch!” confessed a responsive mur- 
mur. 

“I haena seen muckle o’ this warl’ yet, compared wi’ 
you, sirs,” Donal went on, “but I hae been a heap my 
lane wi’ nowt an’ sheep, whan a heap o’ things gaed 
throuw my heid; an’ I hae seen something as weel, 
though no that muckle. I hae seen a man, a’ his life 
afore a douce honest man, come til a heap o’ siller, an’ 
gang to the dogs!” 

A second murmur seemed to indicate corroboration. 

“He gaed a’ to the dogs, as I say,” continued Donal; 
“an’ the bairns he left ahint him whan he dee’d o’ 
drink, cam’ upo’ the perris, or wad hae hungert but for 
some ’at kenned him whan he was yet in honor an’ 
poverty. Noo, wad ye no say this was a veesitin’ o’ the 
sins o’ the father npo’ the children?” 

“Ay, doobtless!” 

“Weel, whan I h’ard last aboot them, they were a’ like 
eneuch to turn oot honest lads an’ lasses.” 

“Ow, I daur say!” 

“An’ what micht ye think the probability gien they had 
come intil a lot o’ siller whan their father dee’d?” 

“Maybe they micht hae gane the same gait he gaed!” 

“Was there injustice, than, or was there favor i’ that 
veesitation o’ the sins o’ their father upo’ them?” 

There was no answer. The toddy went down their 
throats and the smoke came out of their mouths, but no 
one dared acknowledge it might be a good thing to be 
born poor instead of rich. So entirely was the subject 
dropped that Donal feared he had failed to make himself 
understood. He did not know the general objection to 
talking of things on eternal principles. We set up for 
judges of right while our very selves are wrong! He saw 
that he had cast a wet blanket over the cumpany, and 
judged it better to take his leave. 

Borrowing a wheelbarrow, he trundled his chest home, 
and unpacking it in the archway, carried his books and 
clothes to his room. 


DONAL GRANT. 


47 


CHAPTER X. 

THE PARISH CLERGYMAN. 

The next day Donal put on his best coat and went to 
call on the minister. Shown into the study, he saw seated 
there the man he had met on his first day’s journey, the 
same who had parted from him in such displeasure. He 
presented his letter. 

Mr. Carmichael gave him a keen glance, but uttered 
no word until he had read it. 

“Well, young man,” he said, looking up at him with 
concentrated severity, “what would you have me to do?” 

“Tell me of any situation you may happen to know or 
hear of, sir,” said Donal. “That is all I could expect.” 

“Ah!” repeated the clergyman, with something very like 
a sneer; “but what if I think that all a very great deal? 
What if I imagine myself set in charge over young minds 
and hearts? What if I know you better than the good 
man whose friendship for your parents gives him a kind 
interest in you? You little thought how you were under- 
mining your prospects last Friday! My old friend would 
scarcely have me welcome to my parish one he may be 
glad to see out of his own. You can go to the kitchen and 
have your dinner — I have no desire to render evil for evil 
— but I will not bid you God-speed. And the sooner you 
take yourself out of this, young man, the better!” 

“Good-morning, sir!” said Donal, and left the room. 

On the doorstep he met a youth he had known by sight 
at the university : it was the minister’s son — the worst- 
behaved of all the students. Was this a case of the sins 
of the father being visited on the child? Does God never 
visit the virtues of the father on the child? 

A little ruffled, and not a little disappointed, Donal 
walked away. Almost unconsciously he took the road to 
the castle, and coming to the gate, leaned on the top bar, 
and stood thinking. 

Suddenly, down through the trees came Davie bound- 
ing, pushed his hand through between the bars, and 
shook hands with him. 

“I have been looking for you all day!” he said. 

“Why?” asked Donal. 

“Forgue sent you a letter.” 


48 


DONAL GRANT. 


“I have had no letter. ” 

“Eppy took it this morning.” 

“Ah, that explains ! I have not been home since break- 
fast.’ 5 

“It was to say my father would like to see you.” 

“I will go and get it; then I shall know what to do.” 

“Why do you live there? The cobbler is a dirty little 
man! Your clothes will smell of leather!” 

“He is not dirty,” said Donal. “His hands do get 
dirty — very dirty with his work — and his face too; and I 
dare say soap and water can’t get them quite clean. But 
he will have a nice earth-bath one day, and that will take 
all the dirt oft. And if you could see his soul — that is as 
clean as clean can be — so clean it is quite shining!” 

“Have you seen it?” said the hoy, looking up at Donal, 
unsure whether he was making game of him or meaning 
something very serious. 

“I have had a glimpse or two of it. I never saw a 
cleaner. You know, my dear boy, there’s a cleanness 
much deeper than the skin!” 

“I know!” said Davie, but stared as if he wondered he 
would speak of such things. 

Donal returned his gaze. Out of the fullness of his 
heart his eyes shone. Davie was reassured. 

“Can you ride?” he asked. 

“Yes, a little.” 

“Who taught you?” 

“An old mare I was fond of.” 

“Ah, you are making game of me! I do not like to be 
made game of,” said Davie, and turned away. 

“No, indeed,” replied Donal. “I never make game of 
anybody. But now I will go and find the letter.” 

“I would go with you,” said the boy, “but my father 
will not let me beyond the grounds. I don’t know why.” 

Donal hastened home, and found himself eagerly ex- 
pected, for the letter young Eppy had brought was from 
the earl. It informed Donal that it would give his lord- 
ship pleasure to see him, if he would favor him with a 
call. 

In a few minutes he was again on the road to the castle. 


DONAL GRANT. 


49 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE EARL. 

He met no one on his way from the gate np through 
the wood. He ascended the hill with its dark ascending 
firs, np to its crown of silvery birches, above which, as 
often as the slowly circling road brought him to the other 
side, he saw rise like a helmet the gray mass of the for- 
tress. Turret and tower, pinnacle and battlement, ap- 
peared and disappeared as he climbed. Not until at last 
he stood almost on the top, and from an open space be- 
held nearly the whole front, could he tell what it was like. 
It was a grand pile, but looked a gloomy one to live in. 

He stood on a broad grassy platform, from which rose a 
graveled terrace, and from the terrace the castle. He ran 
his eye along the front seeking a door, but saw none. 
Ascending the terrace by a broad flight of steps, he 
approached a deep recess in the front, where two portions 
of the house of differing date nearly met. Inside this re- 
cess he found a rather small door, flush with the wall, 
thickly studded and plated with iron, surmounted by the 
Morven horses carved in the gray stone, and surrounded 
with several moldings. Looking for some means of 
announcing his presence, he saw a handle at the end of a 
rod of iron, and pulled, but heard nothing: the sound of 
the bell was smothered in a wilderness of stone walls. By 
and by, however, appeared an old servant, bowed and slow, 
with plentiful hair, white as wool, and a mingled look of 
childishness and caution in his wrinkled countenance. 

“The earl wants to see me,” said Donal. 

“What name?” said the man. 

“Donal Grant; but his lordship will be nothing the 
wiser, I suspect; I don’t think he knows my name. Tell 
him — the young man he sent for to Andrew Comin’s.” 

The man left him, and Donal began to look about him. 
The place where he stood was a mere entry,' a cell in huge 
walls, with a second, a low, round-headed door, like the 
entrance to a prison, by which the butler had disappeared. 
There was nothing but bare stone around him, with again 
the Morven arms cut deep into it on one side. The ceil- 
ing was neither vaulted nor groined nor flat, but seemed 
determined by the accidental concurrence of ends of stone 


50 


ZONAL GRANT. 


stairs and corners of floors on different levels. It was full 
ten minutes before the man returned and requested him 
to follow him. 

Immediately Donal found himself in a larger and less 
irregular stone case, adorned with heads and horns and 
skins of animals. Crossing this, the man opened a door 
covered with red cloth which looked strange in the midst 
of the cold, hard stone, and Donal entered an octagonal 
space, its doors of dark shining oak, with carved stone 
lintels and doorposts, and its walls adorned with arms and 
armor almost to the domed ceiling. Into it, as if it de- 
scended suddenly out of some far height, but dropping at 
last like a gently alighting bird, came the end of a turn- 
pike stair, of slow sweep and enormous diameter — such a 
stair as in wildest Gothic tale he had never imagined. 
Like the revolving center of a huge shell, it went up out 
of sight, with plain promise of endless convolutions be- 
youd. It was of ancient stone, but not worn as would 
have been a narrow stair. A great rope of silk, a modern 
addition, ran up along the wall for a hand-rail; and with 
slow-moving withered hand upon it, up the glorious as- 
cent climbed the serving-man, suggesting to Donal’s eye 
the crawling of an insect, to his heart the redemption of 
the sons of God. 

With the stair yet ascending above them as if it would 
never stop, the man paused upon a step no broader than 
the rest, and opening a door in the round of the well, 
said, “Mr. Grant, my lord,” and stood aside for Donal to 
enter. 

He found himself in the presence of a tall, bowed man, 
with a large-featured white face, thin and worn, and a 
deep-sunken eye that gleamed with an unhealthy life. 
His hair was thin, but covered his head, and was only 
streaked with gray. His hands were long and thin and 
white; his feet in large shoes, looking the larger’ that 
they came out from narrow trousers, which were of shep- 
herd-tartan. His coat was of light blue, with a high 
collar of velvet, and much too wide for him. A black 
silk neckerchief tied carelessly about his throat, and a 
waistcoat of pineapple shawl-stuff, completed his dress. 
On one long little finger shone a stone which Donal took 
for an emerald. He motioned his visitor to a seat and 
went on writing, with a rudeness more like that of a sue- 


DONAL GRANT. 


51 


cessfnl contractor than a nobleman. But it gave Donal the 
advantage of becoming a little accustomed to his sur- 
roundings. The room was not large, was wainscoted, and 
had a good many things on the walls: Donal noted two or 
three riding-whips, a fishing-rod, several pairs of spurs, a 
sword with golden hilt, a strange-looking dagger like a 
flame of fire, one or two old engravings, and what seemed 
a plan of the estate. At the one window, small, with a 
stone mullion, the summer sun was streaming in. The 
earl sat in its flood, and in the heart of it seemed cold and 
bloodless. He looked about sixty years of age, and as if 
he rarely or never smiled. Donal tried to imagine what a 
smile could do for his face, but failed. He was not in the 
least awed by the presence of the great man. What is 
rank to the man who honors everything human, has no 
desire to look what he is not, has nothing to conceal and 
nothing to compass, is fearful of no to-morrow, and does 
not respect riches? Toward such ends of being the tide 
of Donal’s life was at least setting. So he sat neither 
fidgeting nor staring, but quietly taking things in. 

The earl raised himself, pushed his writing from him, 
turned toward him, and said with courtesy: 

“Excuse me, Mr. Grant; I wished to talk to you with 
the ease of duty done.” 

More polite his address could not have been, but there 
was a something between him and Donal that was not to 
be passed — a nameless gulf of the negative. 

“My time is at your lordship’s service,” replied Donal, 
with the ease that comes of simplicity. 

“You have probably guessed why I sent for you?” 

“I have hoped, my lord.” 

There was something of old-world breeding about the 
lad that commended him to the earl. Such breeding is 
not rare among Celt-born peasants. 

“My sons told me they had met a young man in the 
grounds ” 

“For which I beg your lordship’s pardon,” said Donal. 
“I did not know the place was forbidden.” 

“I hope you will soon be familiar with it. I am glad 
of your mistake. From what they said, I supposed you 
might be a student in want of a situation, and I had been 
looking out for a young man to take charge of the boy; it 
seemed possible you might serve my purpose. I do not 


52 


DONAL GRANT. 


question yon can show yourself fit for such an office: 1 
presume it would suit you. Do you believe yourself one 
to be so trusted?” 

Donal had not a glimmer of false modesty; he answered 
immediately: 

“I do, my lord.” 

“Tell me something of your history: where were you 
born? what were your parents?” 

Donal told him all he thought it of any consequence he 
should know. 

His lordship did not once interrupt him with question 
or remark. When he had ended: 

“Well,” he said, ‘‘I like all you tell me. You have 
testimonials?” 

“I have from the professors, my lord, and one from the 
minister of the parish, who knew me before I went to 
college. I could get one from Mr. Sclater too, whose 
church I attended while there.” 

“Show me what you have,” said his lordship. 

Donal took the papers from the pocket-hook his mother 
had made him, and handed them to him. The earl read 
them with some attention, returning each to him without 
remark as he finished it, only saying with the last: 

“Quite satisfactory.” 

“But,” said Donal, “there is one thing I should he 
more at ease if I told your lordship: Mr. Carmichael, the 
minister of this parish, would tell you I was an atheist, or 
something very like it — therefore an altogether unsafe 
person. But he knows nothing of me.” 

“On what grounds then would he say so?” asked the 
earl — showing not the least discomposure. “I thought 
you w r ere a stranger to this place.” 

Donal told him how they had met, what had passed be- 
tween them, and how the minister had behaved in conse- 
quence. His lordship heard him gravely, was silent for a 
moment, and then said: 

“Should Mr. Carmichael address me on the subject, 
which I do not think likely, he will find me already too 
much prejudiced in your favor. But I can imagine his 
mistaking your freedom of speech: you are scarcely pru- 
dent enough. Why say all you think?” 

“I fear nothing, my lord.” 

The earl was silent; his gray face seemed to grow grayer. 


DOiVAL GRANT. 


53 


but it might be that just then the sun went under a cloud, 
and he was suddenly folded in shadow. After a moment 
he spoke again : 

“I am quite satisfied with you so far, Mr. Grant; and 
as I should not like to employ you in direct opposition to 
Mr. Carmichael — not that I belong to his church — we will 
arrange matters before he can hear of the affair. What 
salary do you want?” 

Donal replied he would prefer leaving the salary. to his 
lordship’s judgment upon trial. 

“I am not a wealthy man,” returned his lordship, “and 
would prefer an understanding.” 

“Try me then for three months, my lord; give me my 
board and lodging, the use of your library, and at the end 
of the quarter a ten-pound note; by that time you will be 
able to tell whether I suit you.” 

The earl nodded agreement and Donal rose at once. 
With a heart full of thankfulness and hope he walked 
back to his friends. He had before him pleasant work; 
plenty of time and book-help; an abode full of interest; 
and something for his labor! 

“ ‘Surely the wrath of man shall praise thee!’ ” said 
the cobbler, rejoicing against the minister ; “the remainder 
of wrath shalt thou restrain.” 

In the afternoon Donal went into the town to get some 
trifles he wanted before going to the castle. As he turned 
to the door of a draper’s shop, he saw at the counter the 
minister talking to him. He would rather have gone else- 
where, but for unwillingness to turn his back on anything, 
he went in. Beside the minister stood a young lady, who, 
having completed her purchases, was listening to their 
conversation. The draper looked up as he entered. A 
glance passed between him and the minister. He came to 
Donal, and having heard what he wanted, left him, went 
back to the minister, and took no more notice of him. 
Donal found it awkward, and left the shop. 

“High an’ mighty!” said the draper, annoyed at losing 
the customer to whose dispraise he had been listening. 

“Far beyond dissent, John!” said the minister, pursu- 
ing a remark. 

“Doobtless, sir, it is that!” answered the draper. “I’m 
thankfu’ to say I never harbored a doobt mysel’, but aye 
took what I was tauld ohn argle-barglet. What hae we 


54 


DONAL GRANT. 


sic as yerseP set ower’s for, gien it binna to haucPs i’ tbe 
straicht path o’ what we’re to believe an’ no to believe? 
It’s a fine thing no to be accoontable!” 

The minister was an honest man so far as he knew him- 
self and honesty and did not relish this form of submis- 
sion. But he did not ask himself where was the difference 
between accepting the word of man and accepting man’s 
explanation of the word of God! He took a huge pinch 
from his black snuff-box and held his peace. 

In the evening Donal would settle his account with 
Mistress Comin: he found her demand so much less than 
he had expected that he expostulated. She was firm, 
however, and assured him she had gained, not lost. As 
he was putting up his things: 

“Lea’ a buik or twa, sir,” she said, “’at whan ye luik 
in, the place may luik hame-like. We s’ ca’ the room 
yours. Come as aften as ye can. It does my Anerew’s 
hert guid to hae a crack wi’ ane ’at kens something o’ 
what the Maister wad be at. Mony ane ’ill ca’ him Lord, 
but feow ’ill tak the trible to ken what he wad hae o’ 
them. But there’s my Anerew — he’ll sit yon’er at his 
wark, thinkin’ by the hoor thegither ower something the 
Maister said ’at he canna win at the richts o’. ‘Depen’ 
upo’ ’t,’ he says whiles, ‘depen’ upo’ ’t, lass, whaur ony- 
thing he says disna luik richt to hiz, it maun be ’at we 
haena won at it!’ ” 

As she ended, her husband came in, and took up what 
he fancied the thread of the dialogue. 

“An’ what are we to think o’ the man,” he said, “’at’s 
content no to un’erstan’ what he was at the trible to say? 
Wad he say things ’at he didna mean fowk to un’erstaV 
whan he said them?” 

“Weel, Anerew,” said his wife, “there’s mony a thing 
he said ’at I cannot un’erstan’; naither am I muckle the 
better for your explainin’ o’ the same; I maun list lat it 
sit.” 

Andrew laughed his quiet, pleased laugh. 

“Weel, lass,” he said, “the duin’ o’ ae thing’s better 
nor the un’erstan’in’ o’ twenty. Nor wull ye be lang 
ohn un’erstan’t muckle ’at’s dark to ye noo; for the 
Maister likes nane but the duer o’ the word, an’ her he 
likes weel. Be blythe, lass; ye s’ hae yer fill o’ un’er- 
stan’in’ yet!” 


DONAL GRANT, . 


55 


“Fm fain to believe ye spevk the trowth, Anerew!” 
“It’s great trowth,” said Donal. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE CASTLE. 

The next morning came a cart from the castle to fetch 
his box; and after breakfast he set out for his new abode. 

He took the path by the river-side. The morning was 
glorious. The sun and the river and the birds were 
jubilant, and the wind gave life to everything. It rippled 
the stream and fluttered the long webs bleaching in the 
sun: they rose and fell like white waves on the bright 
green lake; and women, homely Nereids of the grassy 
sea, were besprinkling them with spray. There were 
dull sounds of wooden machinery near, but they made no 
discord with the sweetness of the hour, speaking only of 
activity, not labor. From the long bleaching meadows by 
the river-side rose the wooded base of the castle. Donal’s 
bosom swelled with delight; then cameasting: was he 
already forgetting his inextinguishable grief? “But,” he 
answered himself, “God is more to me than any woman! 
When he puts joy in mv heart shall I not be glad? When 
he calls my name shall I not answer?” 

He stepped out joyfully, and was soon climbing the hill. 
He was again admitted by the old butler. 

“I will show you at once,” he said, “how to go and 
come at your own will.” 

He led him through doors and along passages to a 
postern opening on a little walled garden at the east end 
of the castle. 

“This door,” he said, “is, you observe, at the foot of 
BalioPs tower, and in that tower is your room; I will 
show it you.” 

He led the way up a spiral stair that might almost have 
gone inside the newel of the great staircase. Up and up 
they went, until Donal began to wonder, and still they 
went up. 

“You’re young, sir,” said the butler, “and sound of 
wind and limb; so you’ll soon think nothing of it.” 

“I never was up so high before, except on a hillside,” 
returned Donal. “The college-tower is nothing to this!” 


56 


DONAL GRANT. 


*‘In a day or two you’ll be shooting up and down it like 
a bird. I used to do so myself. I got into the way cf 
keeping a shoulder foremost, and screwing up as if I 
was a blob of air! Old age does make fools of us!” 

“You don’t like it then?” 

“No, I do not: who does?” 

“It’s only that you get spent as you go up. The fresh 
air at the top of the stair will soon revive you,” said 
Donal. 

But his conductor did not understand him. 

“That’s all very well so long as you’re young; but when it 
has got yon, you’ll pant and grumble like the rest of us.” 

In the distance Donal saw Age coming slowly after 
him, to claw him in his clutch, as the old song says. 
“Please God,” he thought, “by the time he comes up, 
I’ll be ready to try a fall with him ! 0 Thou eternally 

young, the years have no hold on thee; let them have 
none on thy child. I too shall have life eternal.” 

Ere they reached the top of the stair, the man halted 
and opened a door. Donal entering saw a small room, 
nearly round, a portion of the circle taken olf by the stair. 
On the opposite side was a window projecting from the 
wall, whence he could look in three different directions. 
The wide country lay at his feet. He saw the winding 
road by which he had ascended, the gate by which he had 
entered, the meadow with its white stripes through which 
he had come, and the river flowing down. He followed 
it with his eyes — lo, there was the sea, shining in the sun 
like a diamond shield! It was but the little German 
Ocean, yet one with the great world-ocean. He tunned 
to his conductor. 

“Yes,” said the old man, answering his look, “it’s a 
glorious sight! When first I looked out there I thought 
I was in eternity.” 

The walls were bare even of plaster; he could have 
counted the stones in them; but they were dry as a bone. 

“You are wondering,” said the old man, “how you 
are to keep warm in the winter! Look here: you shut 
this door over the window! See how thick and strong it 
is! There is your fireplace: and for fuel, there’s plenty 
below! It is a labor to carry it up, I grant; but if I was 
you, I would set to o’ nights when nobody was about, and 
carry till I had a stock laid in!” 


DONAL GRANT. 


5 ? 

“But,” said Donal, “I should fill up my room! I like 
to be able to move about a little!” 

“Ah,” replied the old man, “you don’t know what a 
space you have up here all to yourself. Come this way.” 

Two turns more up the stair, and they came to another 
door. It opened into wide space; from it Donal stepped 
on a ledge or bartizan, without any parapet, that ran 
round the tower, passing above the window of his room. 
I was well he had a steady brain, for he found the height 
affect him more than that of a precipice on Glashgar: 
doubtless he would get used to it, for the old man had 
stepped out without the smallest hesitation. Round the 
tower he followed him. 

On the other side a few steps rose to a watch-tower — a 
sort of ornate sentry-box in stone, where one might sit 
and regard with wide vision the whole country. Avoid- 
ing this, another step or two led them to the roof of the 
castle — of great stone slabs. A broad passage ran be- 
tween the rise of the roof and a battlemented parapet. 
By this they came to a flat roof, on to which they de- 
scended by a few steps. Here stood two rough sheds, with 
nothing in them. 

“There’s stowage!” said the old man. 

“Yes, indeed!” answered Donal, to whom the idea of 
his aerie was growing more and more agreeable. “But 
would there he no objection to my using the place for 
such a purpose?” 

“What objection?” returned his guide. “I doubt if a 
single person but myself knows it.” 

“And shall I be allowed to carry up as much as I 
please?” 

“I allow you,” said the butler, with importance. “Of 
course you will not waste — I am dead against waste! 
But as to what is needful, use your freedom. Dinner will 
be ready for you in the schoolroom at seven.” 

At the door of his room the old man left him, and after 
listening for a moment to his descending steps, Donal 
reentered his chamber. 

Why they put him so apart, Donal never asked him- 
self; that he should have such command of his leisure as 
this isolation promised him was a consequence very satis- 
factory. He proceeded at once to settle himself in his 
new quarters. Finding some shelves in a recess of the 


58 


DONAL OB ANT. 


wall, he arranged his books upon them, and laid his few 
clothes in the chest of drawers beneath. He then got out 
his writing material, and sat down. 

Though his window was so high, the warm pure air 
came i-n full of the aromatic odors rising in the hot sun- 
shine from the young pine trees far below, and from a lark 
far above descended news of heaven-gate. The scent came 
up and the song came down all the time he was writing to his 
mother — a long letter. When he had closed and addressed 
it, he fell into a reverie. Apparently he was to have his 
meals by himself: he was glad of it: he would be able to 
read all the time! But how was he to find the school- 
room? Some one would surely fetch him! They would 
remember he did not know his way about the place! It 
wanted yet an hour to dinner-time when, finding himself 
drowsy, he threw himself on his bed, where presently he 
fell fast asleep. 

The night descended, and when he came to himself, its 
silences were deep around him. It was not dark: there 
was no moon, but the twilight was clear. He could read 
the face of his watch: it was twelve o’clock! No one had 
missed him! He was very hungry! But he had been 
hungrier before and survived it! In his wallet were still 
some remnants of oat-cake. He took it in his hand, and 
stepping out on the bartizan, crept with careful steps 
round to the watch-tower. There he seated himself in the 
stone chair, and ate his dry morsels in the starry pres- 
ences. Sleep had refreshed him, and he was wide awake, 
yet there was on him the sense of a strange existence. 
Never before had he so known himself! Often had he 
passed the night in the open air, but never before had his 
night-consciousness been such! Never had he felt the 
same way alone. He was parted from the whole earth, 
like the ship-boy on the giddy mast. Nothing was below 
but a dimness; the earth and all that was in it was massed 
into a vague shadow. It was as if he had died and gone 
where existence was independent of solidity and sense. 
Above him was domed the vast of the starry heavens; he 
could neither flee from it nor ascend to it! For a moment 
he felt it the symbol of life, yet an unattainable hopeless 
thing. He hung suspended between heaven and earth, 
an outcast of both, a denizen of neither! The true life 
seemed ever to retreat, never to await his grasp. Noth- 


DONAL GRANT. 


59 


ing but the beholding of the face of the Son of man could 
set him at rest as to its reality; nothing less than the 
assurance from his own mouth could satisfy him that all 
was true, all well; life was a thing so essentially divine 
that he could not know it in itself till his own essence was 
pure! But alas, how dream-like was the old story! Was 
God indeed to be reached by the prayers, affected by 
the needs of men? How was he to feel sure of it? Once 
more, as often heretofore, he found himself crying into 
the great world to know whether there was an ear to bear. 
What if there should come to him no answer? How 
frightened then would be his loneliness! But to seem not 
to be heard might be part of the discipline of his dark- 
ness! It might be for the perfecting of his faith that he 
must not yet know how near God was to him! 

“Lord,” he cried, “eternal life is to know thee and thy 
Father; I do not know thee and thy Father; I have not 
eternal life; I have but life enough to hunger for more: 
show me plainly of the Father whom thou alone knowest.” 

And as he prayed, something like a touch of God seemed 
to begin and grow in him till it was more than his heart 
could hold, and the universe about him was not large 
enough to hold in its hollow the heart that swelled with it. 

“God is enough,” he said, and sat in peace. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A SOUND. 

All at once came to his ear through the night a strange 
something. Whence or what it was he could not even 
conjecture. Was it a moan of the river from below? 
Was it a lost music-tone that had wandered from afar 
and grown faint? Was it one of those mysterious 
sounds he had read of as born in the air itself, and 
not yet explained of science? Was it the fluttered skirt 
of some angelic song of lamentation? — for if the angels 
rejoice, they surely must lament! Or was it a stifled 
human moaning? Was any wrong being done far down 
in the white-gleaming meadows below, by the banks of the 
river whose platinum-glimmer he could descry through the 
molten amethystine darkness of the starry night? 


60 


DONAL GRANT. 


Presently came a long-drawn musical moan: it must be 
the sound of some muffled instrument! Verily night 
was the time for strange things! Could sounds be begot- 
ten in the fir trees by the rays of the hot sun, and born 
in the stillness of the following dark, as the light which 
the diamond receives in the day glows out in the gloom? 
There are parents and their progeny that never exist to- 
gether! 

Again the sound — hardly to be called sound! It re- 
sembled a vibration of organ-pipe too slow and deep to 
affect the hearing; only this rather seemed too high, as if 
only his soul heard it. He would steal softly down the 
dumb sto-ne stair! Some creature might be in trouble and 
needing help! 

He crept back along the bartizan. The stair was dark 
as the very heart of the night. He groped his way down. 
The spiral stair is the safest of all: you cannot tumble 
far ere brought up by the inclosing cylinder. Arrived at 
the bottom, and feeling about, he could not find the door 
to the outer air which the butler had shown him; it was 
wall wherever his hands fell. He could not find again the 
stair he had left: he could not tell in what direction it 
lay. 

He had got into a long windowless passage connecting 
two wings of the house, and in this he was feeling his way, 
fearful of falling down some stair or trap. He came at 
last to a door — low-browed like almost all in the house. 
Opening it — was it a thinner darkness or the faintest 
gleam of light he saw? And was that again the sound he 
had followed, fainter and further off than before — a downy 
wind-wafted plume from the skirt of some stray harmony"? 
At such a time of the night surely it was strange! It 
must come from one who could not sleep, and was solacing 
himself with sweet sounds, breathing a soul into the un- 
companionable silence! If so it was, he had no right to 
search further! But how was he to return? He dared 
hardly move, lest he should be found wandering over the 
house in the dead of night like a thief, or one searching 
after its secrets. He must sit down and wait for the 
morning; its earliest light would perhaps enable him to 
find his way to his quarters! 

Feeling about him a little, his foot struck against the 
step of a stair. Examining it with his hands, he believed 


DONAL GRANT. 


61 


it the same he had ascended in the morning: even in a 
great castle, could there he two such royal stairs? He sat 
down upon it, and leaning his head on his hands, com- 
posed himself to a patient waiting for the light. 

Waiting pure is perhaps the hardest thing for flesh and 
blood to do well. The relations of time to mind are very 
strange. Some of their phenomena seem to prove that 
time is only of the mind — belonging to the intellect as 
good and evil belong to the spirit. Anyhow, if it were not 
for the clocks of the universe, one man would live a year, 
a century, where another would live but a day. But the 
mere motion of time, not to say the consciousness of empty 
time, is fearful. It is this empty time that the fool is 
always trying to kill; his effort should be to All it. Yet 
nothing but the living God can fill it — though it he but 
the shape our existence takes to us. Only where he is, 
emptiness is not. Eternity will be but an intense present 
to the child with whom is the Father. 

Such thoughts alighted, flitted, and passed, for the first 
few moments, through the mind of Donal as he sat half- 
consciously waiting for the dawn. It was thousands of 
miles away, over the great round of the sunward-turning 
earth! Ilis imagination woke, and began to picture the 
great hunt of the shadows, fleeing before the arrows of the 
sun, over the broad face of the mighty world — its moun- 
tains, seas, and plains iu turn confessing the light, and 
submitting to Him who slays for them the haunting demons 
of their dark. Then again the moments were the small 
cogs on the wheels of time, whereby the dark castle in which 
he sat was rushing ever toward the light; the cogs were 
caught and the wheels turned swiftly, and the time and 
the darkness sped. He forgot the labor of waiting. If 
now and then he fancied a tone through the darkness, it 
was to his mind the music-march of the morning to his 
rescue from the dungeon of the night. 

But that was no musical tone which made the darkness 
.shudder around him! He sprang to his feet. It was a 
human groan — a groan as of one in dire pain, the pain of 
a souTs agony. It seemed to have descended the stair to 
him. The next instant Donal was feeling his way up— 
cautiously, as if on each succeeding step he might come 
against the man who had groaned. Tales of haunted 
houses rushed into his memory. What if he were but 


62 


DONAL GRANT. 


pursuing the groans of an actor in the past — a creature the 
slave of his own conscious memory— a mere haunter of the 
present which he could not influence — one without phys- 
ical relation to the embodied, save in the groans he could 
yet utter! But it was more in awe than in fear that he 
went. Up and up he felt his way, all about him as still 
as darkness and the night could make it. A ghostly cold 
crept through his skin; it was drawn together as by a 
gently freezing process; and there was a pulling at the 
muscles of his chest, as if his mouth were being dragged 
open by a martingale. 

As he felt his way along the wall, sweeping its great 
endless circle round and round in spiral ascent, all at 
once his hand seemed to go through it; he started and 
stopped. It was the door of the room into which he had 
been shown to meet the earl! It stood wide open. A 
faint glimmer came through the window from the star- 
filled sky. He stepped just within the doorway. Was 
not that another glimmer on the floor — from the back of 
the room — through a door he did not remember having 
seen yesterday? There again was the groan, and nigh at 
hand! Some one must be in sore need! He approached 
the door and looked through. A lamp, nearly spent, 
hung from the ceiling of a small room which might be an 
office or study, or a place where papers were kept. It 
had the look of an antechamber, but that it could 
not be, for there was but the one door! In the dim 
light he descried a vague form leaning up against one 
of the walls, as if listening to something through 
it! As he gazed it grew plainer to him, and he saw a 
face, its eyes staring wide, which yet seemed not to see 
him. It was the face of the earl. Donal felt as if in 
the presence of the disembodied; he stood fascinated, nor 
made attempt to retire or conceal himself. The figure 
turned its face to the wall, put the palms of its hands 
against it, and moved them up and down, and this way 
and that, then looked at them, aud began to rub them 
against each other. 

Donal came to himself. He concluded it was a case of 
sleep-walking. He had read that it was dangerous to wake 
the sleeper, but that he seldom came to mischief when left 
alone, and was about to slip away as he had come, when 
the faint sound of a far-oS chord crept through the 


DONAL GRANT, 


63 


silence. The earl again laid his ear to the wall. But 
there was only silence. He went through the same dumb 
show as before, then turned as if to leave the place. Donal 
turned also, and hurriedly felt his way to the stair. Then 
first he was in danger of terror; for in stealing through 
the darkness from one who could find his way without his 
eyes, he seemed pursued by a creature not of this world. 
On the stair he went down a step or two, then lingered, 
and heard the earl come on it also. He crept close to the 
newel, leaving the great width of the stair free, but the 
steps of the earl went upward. Donal descended, sat 
down again at the bottom of the stair, and began again to 
wait. No sound came to him through the rest of the 
night. The slow hours rolled way, and the slow light 
drew nearer. Now and then he was on the point of fall- 
ing into a doze, but would suddenly start wide awake, 
listening through a silence that seemed to fill the whole 
universe and deepen around the castle. 

At length he was aware that the darkness had, unob- 
served of him, grown weaker — that the approach of the 
light was sickening it; the dayspring was about to take 
hold of the ends of the earth that the wicked might be 
shaken out of its lap. He sought the long passage by 
which he had come, and felt his way to the other end; it 
would be safer to wait there if he could get no further. 
But somehow he came to the foot of his own stair, and 
sped up as if it were the ladder of heaven. He threw 
himself on his bed, fell fast asleep, and did not wake till 
the sun was high. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE SCHOOLROOM. 

Old Simmons, the butler, woke him. 

“I was afraid something was the matter, sir. They tell 
me you did not come down last night; and breakfast has 
been waiting you two hours ” 

“I should not have known where to find it,” said 
Donal. ‘‘The knowledge of an old castle is not intuitive.” 
“How long will you take to dress?” asked Simmons. 
“Ten minutes, if there is any hurry,” answered Donal. 


64 


DONAL GRANT. 


“I will come again in twenty; or, if yon are willing to 
save an old man’s bones, I will be at the bottom of the 
stair at that time to take charge of you. I would have 
looked after von yesterday, but his lordship was poorly, 
and I had to be in attendance on him till after midnight.” 

Donal thought it impossible he should of himself have 
found his way to the schoolroom. With all he could do 
to remember the turnings, he found the endeavor hope- 
less, and gave it up with a not unpleasing despair. 
Through strange passages, through doors in all directions, 
upstairs and down they went, and at last came to a long, 
low room, barely furnished, with a pleasant outlook, and 
immediate access to the open air. The windows were 
upon a small grassy court, with a sun-dial in the center; a 
door opened on a paved court. At one end of the room a 
table was laid with ten times as many things as he could 
desire to eat, though he came to it with a good appetite. 
The butler himself waited upon him. He was a good- 
natured old fellow, with a nose somewhat too red for the 
ordinary wear of one in his responsible position. 

“I hope the earl is better this morning,” said Donal. 

“Well, I can’t say. He’s but a delicate man is the earl, 
and has been so long as I have known him. He was with 
the army in India, and the sun, they say, give him a 
stroke, and ever since he have headaches that bad! But 
in between he seems pretty well, and nothing displeases 
him more than to ask after his health, or how he slept the 
night. But he’s a good master, and I hope to end my 
days with him. I’m not one as likes new faces and new 
places! One good place is enough for me, says I — so long 
as it is a good one. Take some of this game pie, sir.” 

Donal made haste with his breakfast, and to Simmons’ 
astonishment had ended when he thought him just well 
begun. 

‘‘How shall I find Master Davie?” he asked. 

“He is wild to see you, sir. When I’ve cleared away 
just have the goodness to ring this bell out of that win- 
dow, and he’ll be with you as fast as he can lay his feet to 
the ground.” 

Donal rang the hand-bell. A shout- mingled with the 
clang of it. Then came the running of swift feet over 
the stones of the court, and Davie burst into the room. 

“Oh, sir/’ he cried, “I am glad! It is good of you to 
come!” 


DONAL GRANT. 


65 


‘‘Well, you see, Davie,” returned Donal, “everybody 
has got to do something to carry the world on a bit: my 
work is to help make a man of you. Only I can’t do 
much except you help me; and if I find I am not making 
a good job of you, I shan’t stop many hours after the 
discovery. If you want to keep me, you must mind what 
I say, and so help me to make a man of you.” 

“It will be long before I am a man!” said Davie rather 
disconsolately. 

“It depends on yourself. The boy that is longest in 
becoming a man is the boy that thinks himself a man 
before he is a bit like one.” 

“Come, then, let us do something!” said Davie. 

“Come away,” rejoined Donal. “What shall we do 
first?” 

“I don’t know: you must tell me, sir.” 

“What would you like best to do — I mean if you might 
do what you pleased?” 

Davie thought a little, then said: 

“I should like to write a book.” 

“What kind of a book?” 

“A beautiful story.” 

“Isn’t it just as well to read such a book? Why should 
you want to write one?” 

“Because then I should have it go just as I wanted it! 
I am always — almost always — disappointed with the thing 
that comes next. But if I wrote it myself, then I 
shouldn’t get tired of it; it would be what pleased me, 
and not what pleased somebody else.” 

“Well,” said Donal, after thinking for a moment, 
“suppose you begin to write a book!” 

“Oh, that will be fun! much better than learning verbs 
and nouns!” 

“But the verbs and nouns are just the things that go to 
make a story — with not a few adjectives and adverbs and 
a host of conjunctions; and, if it be a very moving story, 
a good many interjections! These all you have got to put 
together with good choice, or the story will not be one you 
would care to read. Perhaps you had better not begin till 
I see whether you know enough about those verbs and 
nouns to do the thing decently. Show me your school- 
books.” 

“There they all are— -on that shelf! I haven’t opened 


66 


DONAL GRANT. 


one of them since Percy came home. He laughed at them 
all, and so Arkie — that’s Lady Arctura— told him he might 
teach me himself. And he wouldn’t; and she wouldn’t 
— with him to laugh at her. And I’ve had such a jolly 
time ever since — reading books out of the library! Have 
you seen the library, Mr. Grant?” 

“No; I’ve seen nothing yet. Suppose we begin with a 
holiday, and you begin by teaching me!” 

“Teaching you, sir! I’m not able to teach you!” 

“Why, didn’t you as much as offer to teach me the 
library? Can’t you teach me this great old castle? And 
areu’t you going to teach yourself to me?” 

“That would be a funny lesson, sir!” 

“The least funny, the most serious lesson you could 
teach me! You are a book God has begun, and he has 
sent me to help him go on with it; so I must learn what 
he has written already before I try to do anything.” 

“But you know what a boy is, sir! Why should you 
want to learn me?” 

“You might as well say that, because I have read one 
or two books, I must know every book. To understand 
one boy helps to understand another, but every buy is a 
new boy, different from every other boy, and every one has 
to be understood.” 

“Yes — for sometimes Arkie won’t hear me out, and I 
feel so cross with her I should like to give her a good box 
on the ear. What king was it, sir, that made the law 
that no lady, however disagreeable, was to have her ears 
boxed? Do you think it a good law, sir?” 

“It is good for you and me, anyhow.” 

“And when Percy says, ‘Oh, go away! don’t bother/ 
I feel as if I could hit him hard ! Yet, if I happen to 
hurt him, I am so sorry! and why then should I want to 
hurt him?” 

“There’s something in this little fellow !” said Donal 
to himself. “Ah, why indeed?” he answered. “You 
see you don’t understand yourself yet.” 

“No, indeed!” 

“Then how could you think I should understand you all 
at once? — and a boy must be understood, else what’s to 
become of him! Fancy a poor boy living all day, and 
sleeping all night, and nobody understanding him!” 

“That would be dreadful! But you will understand 
ine?” 


DONAL GRANT. 67 

“Only a little: I’m not wise enough to understand any 
boy.” 

“Then — but isn’t that what you said you came for? I 
thought ” 

“Yes,” answered Donal, “that is what I came for; but 
if I fancied I quite understood any boy, that would be a 
sure sign I did not understand him. There is One who 
understands every boy as well as if there were no other 
boy in the whole world.” 

“Then why doesn’t every boy go to him when he can’t 
get fair play?” 

“Ah, why? That is just what I want you to do. He 
can do better than give you fair play even: he can make 
you give other people fair play, and delight in it.” 

“Tell me where he is.” 

“That is what I have to teach you: mere telling is not 
much use. Telling is what makes people think they 
know when they do not, and makes them foolish.” 

“What is his name?” 

“I will not tell you that just yet; for then you would 
think you knew him, when you know next to nothing 
about him. Look here; look at this book,” he went on, 
pulling a copy of Boethius from his pocket; “look at the 
name on the back of it: it is the name of the man that 
wrote the book.” 

Davie spelled it out. 

“Now you know all about the book, don’t you?” 

“No, sir; I don’t know anything about it.” 

“Well then, my father’s name is Robert Grant; you 
know now what a good man he is.” 

“No, I don’t. I should like to see him, though!” 

“You would love him if you did! But you see now 
that knowing the name of a person does not make you 
know the person.” 

“But you said, sir, that if you told me the name of that 
person, I should fancy I knew all about him. I don’t 
fancy I know all about your father now you have told me 
his name!” 

“You have me there!” answered Donal. “I did not 
say quite what I ought to have said. I should have said 
that when we know a little about a person, and are used to 
hearing his name, then we are ready to think we know all 
about him. I heard a man the other day— a man who had 


4 


68 


DONAL GRANT. 


never spoken to your father — talk as if he knew all about 
him.” 

“I think I understand,” said Davie. 

To confess ignorance is to lose respect with the ignorant 
who would appear to know. But there is a worse thing 
than to lose the respect even of the wise — to deserve to 
lose it; and that he does who would gain a respect that 
does not belong to him. But a confession of ignorance 
is a ground of respect with a well-bred child, and even 
with many ordinary boys will raise a man’s influence: they 
recognize his loyalty to the truth. Act-truth is infinitely 
more than fact-truth ; the love of the truth infinitely be- 
yond the knowledge of it. 

They went out together, and when they had gone the 
round of the place outside, Davie would have taken him 
over the house; but Donal said they would leave some- 
thing for another time, and made him lie down for ten 
minutes. This the boy thought a great hardship, but 
Donal saw that he needed to be taught to rest. Ten 
times in those ten minutes he was on the point of jumping 
up, but Donal found a word sufficient to restrain him. 
When the ten minutes were over, he set him an addition 
sum. The boy protested he knew all the rules of arith- 
metic. 

“Bat,” said Donal, “I must know that you know them; 
that is my business. Do this one, however easy it is.” 

The boy obeyed, and brought him the sum — incorrect. 

“Now, Davie,” said Donal, “you said you knew all 
about addition, but you have not done this sum correctly.” 

“I have only made a blunder, sir.” 

“But a rule is no rule if it is not carried out. Every- 
thing goes on the supposition of its being itself, and not 
something else. People that talk about good things with- 
out doing them are left out. You are not master of addi- 
tion until your addition is to be depended upon.” 

The boy found it hard to fix his attention; to fix it on 
something he did not yet understand would be too hard! 
he must learn to do so in the pursuit of accuracy where he 
already understood! then he would not have to fight two 
difficulties at once — that of understanding and that of 
fixing his attention. But for a long time he never kept 
him more than a quarter of an hour at work on the same 
thing. 


DONAL GRANT. 


69 


When he had done the sum correctly, and a second 
without need of correction, he told him to lay his slate 
aside, and he would tell him a fairy-story. Therein he 
succeeded tolerably — in the opinion of Davie, wonderfully: 
what a tutor was this, who let fairies into the schoolroom! 

The tale was of no very original construction — the young- 
est brother gaining in the path of righteousness what the 
elder brothers lose through masterful selfishness. A man 
must do a thing because it is right, even if he die for it; 
but truth were poor indeed if it did not bring at last all 
things subject to it! As beauty and truth are one, so are 
truth and strength one. Must God be ever on the cross, 
that we poor worshipers may pay him our highest honor? 
Is it not enough to know that if the devil were the greater, 
yet would not God do him homage, but would hang for- 
ever on his cross? Truth is joy and victory. The true 
hero is adjudged to bliss, nor can in the nature of things, 
that is, of God, escape it. He who holds by life and re- 
sists death must be victorious; his very life is a slaying of 
death. A man may die for his opinion, and may only be 
living to himself: a man who dies for the truth dies to 
himself and to all that is not true. 

“ What a beautiful story !” cried Davie, when it ceased. 
“Where did you get it, Mr. Grant?’’ 

“Where all stories come from.” 

“Where is that?” 

“The Think-book.” 

“What a funny name! I never heard it! Will it be 
in the library?” 

“No; it is in no library. It is the book God is always 
writing at one end, and blotting out at the. other. It is 
made of thoughts, not words. It is the Think-book.” 

“Now I understand! You got the story out of your 
own head!” 

“Yes, perhaps. But how did it get into my head?” 

“I can’t tell that. Nobody can tell that!” 

“Nobody can that never goes up above his own head — • 
that never shuts the Think-book and stands upon it. 
AVhen one does, then the Think-book swells to a great 
mountain and lifts him up above all the world: then he 
sees where the stories come from, and how they get into 
his head. Are you to have a ride to-day?” 


70 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Well, we will now do just as we both like, I hope, and 
it will be two likes instead of one— that is, if we are true 
friends.” 

“We shall be true friends — that we shall!” 

“How can that be — between a little boy like you and 
a grown man like me?” 

“By me being good.” 

“By both of us being good — no other way. If one of 
us only was good, we could never be true friends. I must 
be good as well as you, else we shall never understand 
each other!” 

“How kind you are, Mr. Grant! You treat me just 
like another one!” said Davie. 

“But we must not forget that I am the big one and you 
the little one, and that we can’t be the other one to 
each other except the little one does what the big one tells 
him! That’s the way to fit into each other.” 

“Oh, of course!” answered Davie, as if there could not 
be two minds about that. 


CHAPTER XV. 

HORSE AND MAH. 

Durihg the first day and the next, Donal did not even 
come in sight of any other of the family; but on the third 
day, after their short early school — for he seldom let 
Davie work till he was tired, and never after — going with 
him through the stable-yard, they came upon Lord Forgue 
as he mounted his horse — a nervous, fiery, thin-skinned 
thoroughbred. The moment his master was on him, he 
began to back and rear. Forgue gave him a cut with his 
whip. He went wild, plunging and dancing and kicking. 
The young lord was a horseman in the sense of having a 
good seat; but he knew little about horses; they were to 
him creatures to be compelled, not friends with whom to 
hold sweet concert. He had not learned that to rule ill is 
worse than to obey ill. Kings may be worse than it is in 
the power of any subject to be. As he was raising his 
arm for a second useless, cruel, and dangerous blow, Donal 
darted to the horse’s head. 

“You mustn’t do that, my lord!” he said. “You’ll 
drive him mad.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


11 


But the worst part of Forgue’s nature was uppermost; 
in his rage all the vices of his family rushed to the top. 
He looked down on Donal with a fury checked only by 
contempt. 

‘‘Keep off,” he said, “or it will be the worse for you. 
What do you know about horses?” 

“Enough to know that you are not fair to him. I will 
not let you strike the poor animal. Just look at this 
water-chain !” 

“Hold your tongue, and stand away, or, by ” 

“Ye winna fricht me, sir,” said Donal, whose English 
would, for years, upon any excitement, turn cowardly and 
run away, leaving his mother-tongue to bear the brunt. 
“I’m no timersome.” 

Forgue brought down his whip with a great stinging 
blow upon DonaPs shoulder and back. The fierce blood 
of the highland Celt rushed to his brain, and had not the 
man in him held by God and trampled on the devil, there 
might then have been miserable work. But though he 
clinched his teeth, he fettered his hands, and ruled his 
tongue, and the Master of men was master still. 

“My lord,” he said, after one instant’s thunderous 
silence, “there’s that i’ me wad think as little o’ throttlin’ 
ye as ye du o’ ill-usin’ yer puir beast. But I’m no gaein’ 
to drop his quarrel an’ tak up my ain : that wad be 
cooardly.” Here he patted the creature’s neck, and re- 
covering his composure and his English, went on. “I 
tell you, my lord, the curb-chain is too tight! The ani- 
mal is suffering as you can have no conception of, or you 
would pity him.” 

“Let him go,” cried Forgue, “or I will make you.” 

He raised his whip again, the more enraged that the 
groom stood looking on with his mouth open. 

“I tell your lordship,” said Donal, “it is my turn to 
strike; and if you hit the animal again before that chain 
is slackened, I will pitch you out of the saddle.” 

For answer Forgue struck the horse over the head. 
The same moment he was on the ground; Donal had 
taken him by the leg and thrown him off. He was not 
horseman enough to keep his hold of the reins, and Donal 
led the horse a little way off, and left him to get up in 
safety. The poor animal was pouring with sweat, shiver- 
ing and trembling, yet throwing his head back every 


n 


1)0NAL GRANT. 


moment. Donal could scarcely undo the chain; it was 
twisted — his lordship had fastened it himself — and sharp 
edges pressed his jaw at the least touch of the rein. He 
had not yet rehooked it, when Forgue was upon him with 
a second blow of the whip. The horse was scared afresh 
at the sound, and it was all he could do to hold him, but 
he succeeded at length in calming him. When he looked 
about him Forgue was gone. He led the horse into the 
stable, put him in his stall, and proceeded to unsaddle 
him. Then first he was reaware of the presence of Davie. 
The boy was stamping — with fierce eyes and white face — 
choking with silent rage. 

“Davie, my child !” said Donal, and Davie recovered 
his power of speech. 

“IT1 go and tell my father !” he said, and made for the 
stable door. 

“Which of us are you going to tell upon?” asked Donal 
with a smile. 

“Percy, of course !” he replied, almost with a scream. 
“You are a good man, Mr. Grant, and he is a bad fellow. 
My father will give it him well. He doesn’t often — hut 
oh, can’t he just! To dare to strike you! I’ll go to him 
at once, whether he’s in bed or not!” 

“No, you won’t, my boy! Listen to me. Some people 
think it’s a disgrace to be struck: I think it a disgrace to 
strike. I have a right over your brother by that blow, 
and I mean to keep it — for his good. You didn’t think 
I was afraid of him?” 

“No, no; anybody could see you weren’t a bit afraid of 
him. I would have struck him again if ho had killed 
me for it!” 

“I don’t doubt you would. But when you understand, 
you will not be so ready to strike. I could have killed 
your brother more easily than held his horse. You don’t 
know how strong I am, or what a blow of my fist would 
be to a delicate fellow like that. I hope his fall has not 
hurt him.” 

“I hope it has — a little, I mean, only a little,” said the 
boy, looking in the face of his tutor. “But tell me why 
you did not strike him. It would be good for him to be 
well beaten.” 

“It will, I hope, be better for him to be well forgiven; 
he will be ashamed of himself the sooner, I think. But 


DONAL GRANT. 


73 


why I did not strike him was, that I am not my own 
master.’’* 

“But my father, I am sure, would not have been angry 
with you. He would have said you had a right to do it.” 

“Perhaps; but the earl is not the master I mean.” 

“Who is, then?” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“0— h !” 

“He says I must not return evil for evil, a blow for a 
blow. I don’t mind what people say about it: he would 
not have me disgrace myself ! He never even threatened 
those that struck him.” 

“But he wasn’t a man, you know!” 

“Not a man! What was he, then?” 

“He was God, you know.” 

“And isn’t God a man — and ever so much more than a 
man?” 

The boy made no answer, and Donal went on. 

“Do you think God would have his child do anything 
disgraceful? Why, Davie, you don’t know your own 
Father! What God wants of us is to be downright honest, 
and do what he tells us without fear.” 

Davie was silent. His conscience reproved him, as the 
conscience of a true-hearted boy will reprove him at the 
very mention of the name of God, until he sets himself 
consciously to do his will. Donal said no more, and they 
went for their walk. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

COLLOQUIES. 

In' the evening Donal went to see Andrew Comin. 

“Weel, hoo are ye gettin’ on wi’ the yerl?” asked the 
cobbler. 

“You set me a good example of saying nothing about 
him,” answered Donal; “and I will follow it — at least till 
I know more: I have scarce seen him yet.” 

“That’s richt,” returned the cobbler with satisfaction. 
“I’m thinkin’ ye’ll be ane o’ the feow ’at can rule their 
ain hoose — that is, haud their ain tongues till the hoor 
for speech be come. Stick ye to that, my dear sir, an’ 
mair ’ill be weel nor in general is weel.” 


74 


DONAL GRANT. 


“I’m come to ye for a bit o’ help, though; I want licht 
upon a question ’at’s lang triblet me. What think ye, hoo 
far does the comman’ laid upo’ ’s, as to warfare atween 
man an’ man, reach? Are we never to raise the han’ to 
human bein’, think ye?” 

“Weel, I hae thoucht a heap aboot it, an’ I daurna say 
’at I’m jist absolute clear upo’ the maitter. But there 
may be pairt clear whaur a’ ’s no clear; an’ by what we 
un’erstan’ we come the nearer to what we dinna un’er- 
stan’. There’s ae thing unco plain — ’at we’re on no ac- 
coont to return evil for evil: onybody ’at ca’s himsel’ a 
Christian maun un’erstan' that muckle. We’re togie no 
place to revenge, inside or oot. Therefore we’re no to gie 
blow for blow. Gien a man hit ye, ye’re to take it i’ 
God’s name. But whether things mayna come to a p’int 
whaurat ye’re bu’n’, still i’ God’s name, to defen’ the 
life God has gien ye, I canna say — I haena the licht to 
justifee me in denyin’ ’t. There maun surely, I hae said 
to mysel’, be a time whan a man may hae to du what God 
dis sae aften — mak use o’ the strong hail’! But it’s clear 
he maunnado ’t in rage — that’s ower near hate — an’ hate’s 
the deevil’s ain. A man may, gien he live varra near 
the Lord, be whiles angry ohn sinned: but the wrath o’ 
man worKeth not the richteousness o’ God; an’ the wrath 
that rises i’ the mids o’ encoonter is no like to be o’ the 
natur o’ divine wrath. To win at it, gien ’t be possible, 
lat’s consider the Lord — hoo he did. There’s no word 
o’ him ever liftin’ han’ to protec’ himsel’. The only 
thing like it was for ithers. To gar them lat his disciples 
alane — maybe till they Avar like eneuch’ til himsel’ no to 
rin,- he pat oot inair nor his han’ upo’ them ’at cam to 
tak him: he strak them sair wi’ the pooer itsel’ ’at muvs 
a’ airms. But no varra sair naither — he but knockit them 
doon!— jist to lat them ken they war to du as he bade 
them, an’ lat his fowk be; an’ maybe to lat them ken ’at 
gien he loot them tak him, it was no ’at he couldna hin’er 
them gien he likeit. I canna help thinkin’ we may stan’ 
up for ither fowk. An’ I’m no sayin’ ’at we arena to 
defen’ oorsel’s frae a set attack wi’ design. But there’s 
something o’ mair importance yet nor kennin’ the richt 
o’ ony question.” 

“What can that be? What can be o’ mair importance 
nor doin’ richt i’ the sicht o’ God?” said Donal. 


DONAL GRANT. 


75 


“Bein’ richt wi’ the varra thoucht o’ God, sae ’at we 
canna mistak, but maun ken jist what he wad hae dune. 
That’s the big Richt, the mother o’ a’ the lave o’ the richts. 
That’s to be as the Maister was. Onygait, whatever we 
du, it maun be sic as to he dune, an’ it maun be dune i’ 
the name o’ God; whan ye du naething we maun du that 
naething i’ the name o’ God. A body may weel say, ‘0 
Lord, thoo hasna latten me see what I oucht to du, sae 
I’ll du naething!’ Gien a man. oucht to defen’ himsel’, 
hut disna do ’t, ’cause he thinks God wadna hae him du 
’t, wull God lea’ him oondefent for that? Or gien a body 
stan’s up i’ the name o’ God, an’ fronts an airmy o’ en- 
emies, div ye think God ’ill forsake him ’cause he’s made 
a mistak? Whatever’s dune wantin’ faith maun he sin — 
it canna help it; whatever’s dune in faith canna be sin, 
though it may be a mistak. Only latna a man tak pre- 
sumption for faith! that’s a fearsome mistak, for it’s jist 
the opposite.” 

“I thank ye,” said Donal. “I’ll consider wi’ my best 
endeevor what ye hae said.” 

“But o’ a’ things,” resumed the cobbler, “luik ’at ye 
lo’e fair play. Fair play’s a won’erfu’ word — a gran’ 
thing constantly lost sicht o’. Man, I hae been tryin’ to 
win at the duin’ o’ the richt this mony a year, but I 
daurna yet lat mysel’ ac’ upo’ the spur o’ the moment 
wbaur my ain interest’s concernt: my ain side micbt yet 
blin’ me to the ither man’s side o’ the business. Ony- 
body can uu’erstan’ his ain richt, but it taks trible an’ 
thoucht to un’erstan’ what anither coonts his richt. Twa 
richts canna weel clash. It’s a wrang an’ a richt, or pairt 
wrang an’ a pairt richt ’at clashes.” 

' “Gien a’body did that, I doobt there wad be feow for- 
tius made!” said Donal. 

“Aboot that I canna say, no kennin’; I daurna discover 
•i law whaur I hae na knowledge! Bat this same fair play 
iies, alang wi’ love, at the varra rute an’ f’undation o’ 
the universe. The theologians had a glimmer o’ the fac’ 
when they made sae muckle o’ justice, only their justice 
is sic a meeserable sma’ bit plaister eemage o’ justice, ’at 
it maist gars an honest body lauch. They seem to me 
like shepherds ’at rive aoon the door-posts, an’ syne block 
up the door wi’ them.” 

Donal told him of the quarrel he had had with Lord 


76 


TONAL GRANT. 


Forgue, and asked him whether he thought he had done 
right. 

“Weel,” answered the cobbler, “I’m as far frae blamin’ 
yon as I am frae justifeein’ the young lord.” 

“He seems to be a fine kin’ o’ a lad,” said Donal, 
“though some owerbeirin’.” 

“The likes o’ him are mair to be excused for that nor 
ither fowk, for they hae great disadvantages i’ the posi- 
tion an’ the upbringin’. It’s no easy for him ’at’s broucht 
up a lord to believe he’s jist ane wi’ the lave.” 

Donal went for a stroll through the town, and met the 
minister, but he took no notice of him. He was greatly 
annoyed at the march which he said the fellow had stolen 
upon him, and regarded him as one who had taken an 
unfair advantage of him. But he had little influence at 
the castle. The earl never by any chance went to church. 
His niece, Lady Arctura, did, however, and held the 
minister for an authority at things spiritual — one of whom 
living water was to be had without money and without 
price. But what she counted spiritual things were very 
common earthly stuff, and for the water, it was but stag- 
nant water from the ditches of a sham theology. Only 
what was a poor girl to do who did not know how to feed 
herself but apply to one who pretended to be able to feed 
others? How was she to know that he could not even 
feed himself? Out of many a difficulty she thought he 
helped her — only the difficulty would presently clasp her 
again, and' she must deal with it as she best could, until 
a new one made her forget it, and go to the minister, or 
rather to his daughter, again. She was one of those who 
feel the need of some help to live — some upholding that 
is not of themselves, but who, through the stupidity of 
teachers unconsciously false — men so unfit that they do 
not know they are unfit, direct their efforts, first toward 
having correct notions, then to work up the feelings that 
belong to those notions. She was an honest girl so far as 
she had been taught — perhaps not so far as she might 
have been without having been taught. How was she to 
think aright with scarce a glimmer of God’s truth? How 
was she to please God, as she called it, who thought of 
him in a way repulsive to every loving soul? How was 
she to be accepted of God, who did not accept her own 
•neighbor, but looked down, without knowing it, upon so 


BONAL GRANT. 


77 


many of her fellow-creatures? How should such a one 
either enjoy or recommend her religion? It would have 
been the worse for her if she had enjoyed it — the worse 
for others if she had recommended it! Religion is simply 
the way home to the Father. There was little of the path 
in her religion except the difficulty of it. The true way 
is difficult enough because of our unchildlikeness — uphill, 
steep, and difficult, but there is fresh life on every sur- 
mounted height, a purer air gained, ever more life for 
more climbing. But the path that is not the true one is 
not therefore easy. Up hill is hard walking, but through 
a bog is worse. Those who seek God with their faces not 
even turned toward him, who, instead of beholding the 
Father in the Son, take the stupidest opinions concerning 
him and his ways from other men — what should they do 
but go wandering on dark mountains, spending their 
strength in avoiding precipices and getting out of bogs, 
mourning and sighing over their sins instead of leaving 
them behind and fleeing to the Father, whom to know is 
eternal life. Did they but set themselves to find out what 
Christ knew and meant and commanded, and then to do 
it, they would soon forget their false teachers. But alas! 
they go on bowing before long-faced, big-worded authority 
— the more fatally when it is embodied in a good man 
who, himself a victim to faith in men, sees the Son of God 
only through the theories of others, and not with the sight 
of his own spiritual eyes. 

Donal had not yet seen the lady. He neither ate, sat, 
nor held intercourse with the family. Away from Davie, 
he spent his time in his tower chamber or out of doors. 
All the grounds were open to him except a walled garden 
on the southeastern slope, looking toward the sea, which 
the earl kept for himself, though he rarely walked in it. 
On the side of the hill away from the town was a large 
park reaching down to the river, and stretching a long 
way up its bank — with fine trees, and glorious outlooks to 
the sea in one direction, and to the mountains in the 
other. Here Donal would often wander, now with a book, 
now with Davie. The boy’s presence was rarely an inter- 
ruption to his thoughts when he wanted to think. Some- 
times he would throw himself on the grass and read aloud; 
then Davie would throw himself beside him and let the 
words he could not understand flow over him in a spiritual 


78 


DONAL GRANT. 


cataract.' On the river was a boat, and though at first he 
was awkward enough in the use of the oars, he was soon 
able to enjoy thoroughly a row up or down the stream, 
especially in the twilight. 

He was alone with his book under a beech tree on a 
steep slope to the river, the day after his affair with Lord 
Forgue; reading aloud, he did not hear the approach of 
his lordship. 

“Mr. Grant/’ he said, “if you will say you are sorry 
you threw me from my horse, I will say I am sorry I 
struck you.” 

“1 am very sorry,” said Donal, rising, “that it was 
necessary to throw you from your horse; and perhaps 
your lordship may remember that you struck me before I 
did so.” 

“That has nothing to do with it. I propose an accom- 
modation, or compromise, or what you choose to call it: if 
you will do the one, I will do the other.” 

“What I think I ought to do, my lord, I do without 
bargaining. I am not sorry I threw you from your horse, 
and to say so would be to lie.” 

“Of course everybody thinks himself in the right!” 
said his lordship with a small sneer. 

“It does not follow that no one is ever in the right,” 
returned Donal. “Does your lordship think you were in 
the right — either toward me or the poor animal who could 
not obey you because he was in torture?” 

“I don’t say I do.” 

“Then everybody does not think himself in the right! 
I take your lordship’s admission as an apology.” 

“By no means: when I make an apology, I will do it; 
I will not sneak out of it.” 

He was evidently at strife with himself: he knew he 
was wrong, but could not yet bring himself to say so. It 
is one of the poorest of human weaknesses that a man 
should be ashamed of saying he has done wrong, instead 
of so ashamed of having done wrong that he cannot rest 
till he has said so; for the shame cleaves fast until the 
confession removes it. 

Forgue walked away a step or two, and stood with his 
back to Donal, poking the point of his stick into the grass, 
All atYmce he turned and said: 

“I will apologize if you will tell me one thing. ’> 


DONAL GRANT. 


79 


“I will tell yon whether you apologize or not,” said 
Donal. “I have never asked you to apologize.” 

“Tell me, then, why you did not return either of my 
blows yesterday.” 

“I should like to know why you ask — but I will answer 
you ; simply because to do so would have been to disobey 
my Master.” 

“That’s a sort of thing I don’t understand. But I only 
wanted to know it was not cowardice; I could not make 
an apology to a coward.” 

“If I were a coward, you would owe me an apology all 
the same, and he is a poor creature who will not pay his 
debts. But I hope it is not necessary I should either 
thrash or insult your lordship to convince you I fear you 
no more than that blackbird there!” 

Forgue gave a little laugh. A moment’s pause fol- 
lowed. Then he held out his hand, but in a half-hesitat- 
ing, almost sheepish way: 

“Well, well! shake hands,” he said. 

“No, my lord,” returned Donal. “I bear your lord- 
ship not the slightest ill-will, but I will shake hands with 
no one in a half-hearted way, and no other way is possible 
while you are uncertain whether I am a coward or not.” 

So saying, he threw himself again upon the grass, and 
Lord Forgue walked away, offended afresh. 

The next morning he came into the schoolroom where 
Donal sat at lessons with Davie. He had a book in his 
hand. 

“Mr. Grant,” he said, “will you help me with this 
passage in Xenophon?” 

“With all my heart,” answered Donal, and in a few 
moments had him out of his difficulty. 

But instead of going, his lordship sat down a little way 
off and went on with his reading — sat until master and 
pupil went out, and left him sitting there. The next 
morning he came with a fresh request, and Donal found 
occasion to approve warmly of a translation he proposed. 
From that time he came almost every morning. He was 
no great scholar, but with the prospect of an English 
university before him, thought it better to read a little. 

The housekeeper at the castle was a good woman, and 
very kind to Donal, feeling perhaps that he fell to her 
care the more that he was by birth of her own class; for 


80 


TONAL GRANT. 


it was said in the castle: “The tutor makes no pretense 
to being a gentleman.” Whether he was the more or less 
of one on that account, I leave my reader to judge accord- 
ing to his capability. Sometimes when his dinner was 
served, Mrs. Brookes would herself appear, to insure 
proper attention to him, and would sit down and talk to 
him while he ate, ready to rise and serve him if necessary. 
Their early days had had something in common, though 
she came from the southern highlands of green hills and 
more sheep. She gave him some rather needful informa- 
tion about the family; and he soon perceived that there 
would have been less peace in the house but for her good 
temper and good sense. 

Lady Arctura was the daughter of the last Lord Morven, 
and left sole heir to the property; Forgue and his brother 
Davie were the sons of the present earl. The present 
lord was the brother of the last, and had lived with him 
for some years before he succeeded. He was a man of 
peculiar and studious habits; nobody ever seemed to take 
to him; and since his wife’s death his health had been 
precarious. Though a strange man, he was a just if not 
generous master. Ilis brother had left him guardian to 
Lady Arctura, and he had lived in the castle as before. 
His wife was a very lovely, but delicate woman, and lat- 
terly all but confined to her room. Since her death a 
great change had passed upon her husband. Certainly 
his behavior was sometimes hard to understand. 

“He never gangs to the kirk — no ance in a twalmonth,” 
said Mrs. Brookes. “Fbwk sud be dacent, an’ wha ever 
h’ard o’ dacent fowk ’at didna gang to the kirk ance o’ 
the Sabbath? I dinna haud wi’ gaein’ twise mysel’ : ye 
hae na time to read yer ain chapters gien ye do that. But 
the man’s a weel-behavet man, sae far as ye see, naither 
sayin’ nor doin’ the thing he shouldna: what he may 
think, wha’s to say? the mair ten’er conscience coonts 
itsel’ the waur sinner; an’ I’m no gaein’ to think what 
I canna ken. There’s some ’at says he led a gey lowse 
kin’ o’ a life afore he cam to bide wi' the auld yerl; he 
was wi’ the airmy i’ furreign pairts, they say; but aboot 
that I ken naething. The auld yerl was something o’ a 
sanct himsel’, rist the banes o’ ’im ! We’re no the jeedges 
o’ the leevin’ ony mair nor o’ the deid! But I maun 
awa’ to luik efter things; a minute’s an hoor lost wi’ thae 


DONAL GRANT. 


81 


fule lasses. Ye’re a freen’ o’ An’rew Comin’s, they tell 
me, sir: I dinna ken what to do wi’ ’s lass, she’s that up- 
settin’J Ye wad think she was ane o’ the faimily whiles; 
an’ ither whiles she’s that silly!” 

“I’m sorry to hear it!” said Donal. “Her grandfather 
and grandmother are the best of good people.” 

“I daur say! But there’s jist what I hae seen: them 
’at’s broucht up their ain weel eneuch, their son’s bairn 
they’ll jist lat gang. Aither they’re tired o’ the thing, 
or they think they’re safe. They hae lippent til yoong 
Eppy a heap ower muckle. But I’m naither a prophet 
nor the son o’ a prophet, as the minister said last Sunday 
— an’ said well, honest man! for it’s the plain trowth he’s 
no ane o’ the major nor yet the minor anes! But haud 
him oot o’ the pu’pit an’ he dis no that ill. His dochter’s 
no an ill lass aither, an’ a great freen’ o’ my leddy’s. 
But I’m clean ashamed o’ mysel’ to gang on this gait. 
Hae ye dune wi’ yer denner, Mr. Grant? Weel, I’ll jist 
sen’ to clear awa’, an’ lat ye til yer lessons.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

LADY ARCTURA. 

It was now almost three weeks since Donal had become 
an inmate of the castle, and he had scarcely set his eyes 
on the lady of the house. Once he had seen her back, 
and more than once had caught a glimpse of her profile, 
but he had never really seen her face, and they had never 
spoken to each other. 

One afternoon he was sauntering along under the over- 
hanging boughs of an avenue of beeches, formerly the 
approach to a house in which the family had once lived, 
but which had now another entrance. He had in his 
hand a copy of the Apocrypha, which he had never seen 
till he found this in the library. In his usual fashion he 
had begun to read it through, and was now in the book 
called the Wisdom of Solomon, at the 17th chapter, narrat- 
ing the discomfiture of certain magicians. Taken with 
the beauty of the passage, he sat down on an old stone 
roller and read aloud. Parts of the passage were these — 
they will enrich my page: 


82 


DONAL GRANT. 


“For they, that promised to drive away terrors and 
troubles from a sick soul, were sick themselves of fear, 
worthy to be laughed at. 

. . For wickedness, condemned by her own wit- 

ness, is very timorous, and being pressed with conscience, 
always forecasteth grievous things. 

“. . . But they sleeping the same sleep that night, 

which was indeed intolerable, and which came upon them 
out of the bottom of inevitable hell, 

“Were partly vexed with monstrous apparitions, and 
partly fainted, their hearts failing them: for a sudden 
fear, and not looked for, came upon them. 

“So then whosoever there fell down was straitly kept, 
shut up in a prison without iron bars. 

“For whether he were husbandman, or shepherd, or a 
laborer in the held, he was overtaken, and endured that 
necessity, which could not be avoided : for they were all 
bound with one chain of darkness. 

“Whether it were a whistling wind, or a melodious 
noise of birds among the spreading branches, or a pleas- 
ing fall of water running violently. 

“Or a terrible sound of stones cast down, or a running 
that could not be seen of skipping beasts, or a roaring 
voice of most savage wild beasts, or a rebounding echo 
from the hollow mountains: these things made them to 
swoon for fear. 

“For the whole world shined with clear light, and none 
were hindered in their labor: 

“Over them only was spread an heavy night, an image 
of that darkness which should afterward receive them: 
but yet were they unto themselves more grievous than the 
darkness.” 

He had read so much, and stopped to think a little; for 
through the incongruity of it, which he did not doubt 
arose from poverty of imagination in the translator, ren- 
dering him unable to see what the poet meant, ran yet an 
indubitable vein of awful truth, whether fully intended 
by the writer or not mattered little to such a reader as 
Donal — when, lifting his eyes, he saw Lady Arctura 
standing before him with a strange listening look. A 
spell seemed upon her; her face was white, her lips white 
and a little parted. 

Attracted, as she was about to pass him, by the sound 


DONAL GRANT. 


83 


of what was none the less like the Bible from the solemn 
crooning way in which Donal read it to the congregation 
of his listening thoughts, yet was certainly not the Bible, 
she was presently fascinated by the vague terror of what 
she heard, and stood absorbed: without much originative 
power, she had an imagination prompt and delicate and 
strong in response. 

Donal had but a glance of her; his eyes returned again 
at once to his book, and he sat silent and motionless, 
though not seeing a word. For one instant she stood still; 
then he heard the soft sound of her dress as, with noise- 
less foot, she stole back, and took another way. 

I must give my reader a shadow of her. She was rather 
tall, slender, and fair. But her hair was dark, and so 
crinkly that, when merely parted, it did all the rest itself. 
Her forehead was rather low. Her eyes were softly dark, 
and her features very regular — her nose perhaps hardly 
large enough, or her chin. Her mouth was rather thin- 
lipped, but would have been sweet except for a seemingly 
habitual expression of pain. A pair of dark brows over- 
hung her sweet eyes, and gave a look of doubtful temper, 
yet restored something of the strength lacking a little in 
nose and chin. It was an interesting — not a quiet, har- 
monious face, and in happiness might, Donal thought, be 
beautiful even. Her figure was eminently graceful — as 
Donal saw when he raised his eyes at the sound of her 
retreat. He thought she needed not have run away as 
from something dangerous: why did she not pass him like 
any other servant of the house? But what seemed to him 
like contempt did not hurt him. He was too full of real- 
ities to be much affected by opinion however shown. Be- 
sides, he had had his sorrow and had learned his lesson. 
He was a poet — but one of the few without any weak 
longing after listening ears. The poet whose poetry needs 
an audience can be but little of a poet; neither can the 
poetry that is of no good to the man himself be of much 
good to anybody else. There are the song-poets and the 
life-poets, or rather the God-poems. Sympathy is lovely 
and dear — chiefly when it comes unsought; but the fame 
after which so many would-be, yea, so many real poets 
sigh is poorest froth. Donal could sing his songs like 
the birds, content with the blue heaven or the sheep for 
an audience-— or any passing angel that cared to listen. 


84 


DONAL GRANT. 


On the hillsides he would sing them aloud, but it was of 
the merest natural necessity. A look of estrangement on 
the face of a friend, a look of suffering on that of any 
animal, would at once and sorely affect him, but not a 
disparaging expression on the face of a comparative 
stranger, were she the loveliest woman he had ever seen. 
He was little troubled about the world, because little 
troubled about himself. 

Lady Arctura and Lord Forgue lived together like 
brother and sister, apparently without much in common, 
and still less of misunderstanding. There would have 
been more chance of their taking a fancy to each other if 
they had not been brought up together; they were now 
little together, and never alone together. 

Very few visitors came to the castle, and then only to 
call. Lord Morven seldom saw any one, his excuse being 
his health. 

But Lady Arctura was on terms of intimacy with Sophia 
Carmichael, the minister’s daughter — to whom her father 
had communicated his dissatisfaction with the character 
of Donal, and poured out his indignation at his conduct. 
He ought to have left the parish at once! whereas he had 
instead secured for himself the best, the only situation in 
it, without giving him a chance of warning his lordship! 
The more injustice her father spoke against him, the 
more Miss Carmichael condemned him; for she was a 
good daughter, and looked up to her father as the wisest 
and best man in the parish. Very naturally, therefore, she 
repeated his words to Lady Arctura. She in her turn con- 
veyed them to her uncle. He would not, however, pay 
much attention to them. The thing was done, he said. 
He had himself seen and talked with Donal, and liked 
him ! The young man had himself told him of the clergy- 
man’s disapprobation! He would request him to avoid 
all reference to religious subjects! Therewith he dis- 
missed the matter, and forgot all about it. Anything re- 
quiring an effort of the will, an arrangement of ideas, or 
thought as to mode, his lordship would not encounter. 
Nor was anything to him of such moment that he must 
do it at once. Lady Arctura did not again refer to the 
matter: her uncle was not one to take liberties with — 
least of all to press to action. But she continued pain- 
fully doubtful whether she was not neglecting her duty, 


DONAL GRANT. 


85 


trying to persuade herself that she was waiting only till 
she should have something definite to say of her own 
knowledge against him. 

And now what was she to conclude from his reading 
the Apocrypha? The fact was not to be interpreted to 
his advantage; was he not reading what was not the Bible 
as if it were the Bible, and when he might have been read- 
ing the Bible itself? Besides, the Apocrypha came so 
near the Bible when it was not the Bible! it must be at 
least rather wicked ! At the same time she could not 
drive from her mind the impressiveness both of the matter 
she had heard and his manner of reading it: the strong 
sound of judgment and condemnation in it came home to 
her — she could not have told how or why, except generally 
because of her sins. She was one of those — not very few, 
I think — who from conjunction of a lovely conscience 
with an ill-instructed mind are doomed for a season to 
much suffering. She was largely different from her friend ; 
the religious opinions of the latter — they were in reality 
rather metaphysical than religious, and bad either way — 
though she clung to them with all the tenacity of a 
creature with claws, occasioned her not an atom of mental 
discomposure: perhaps that was in part why she clung to 
them : they were as she would have them ! She did not 
trouble herself about what God required of her, beyond 
holding the doctrine the holding of which guaranteed, as 
she thought, her future welfare. Conscience toward God 
had very little to do with her opinions, and her heart 
still less. Her head, on the contrary, perhaps rather her 
memory, was considerably occupied with the matter; 
nothing she held had ever been by her regarded on its 
own merits — that is, on its individual claim to truth; if 
it had been handed down by her church, that was enough ; 
to support it she would search out text after text, and 
press it into the service. Any meaning but that which 
the church of her fathers gave to a passage must be of the 
devil, and every man opposed to the truth who saw in that 
meaning anything but truth! It was indeed impossible 
Miss Carmichael should see any meaning but that, even 
if she had looked for it; she was nowise qualified for dis- 
covering truth, not being herself true. What she saw and 
loved in the doctrines of her church was not the truth, 
but the assertion; and whoever questioned, not to say the 


86 


DONAL GRANT. 


doctrine, but even the proving of it by any particular 
passage, was a dangerous person, and unsound. All the 
time her acceptance and defense of any doctrine made not 
the slightest difference to her life — as indeed how should 
it? 

Such was the only friend Lady Arctura had. But the 
conscience and heart of the younger woman were alive to 
a degree that boded ill either for the doctrine that stinted 
their growth, or the nature unable to cast it off. Miss 
Carmichael was a woman about twenty-six — and had been 
a woman, like too many Scotch girls, long before she was 
out of her teens — a human flower cut and dried — an un- 
pleasant specimen, and by no means valuable from its 
scarcity. Self-sufficient, assured, with scarce shyness 
enough for modesty, handsome and hard, she was essen- 
tially a self-glorious Philistine; nor would she be any- 
thing better till something was sent to humble her, 
though what spiritual engine might be equal to the task 
was not for man to imagine. She was clever, but her 
cleverness made nobody happier; she had great confi- 
dence, but her confidence gave courage to no one, and 
took it from many; she had little fancy, and less imagina- 
tion than any other I ever knew. The divine wonder 
was that she had not yet driven the delicate, truth-loving 
Arctura mad. From her childhood she had had the order- 
ing of all her opinions: whatever Sophy Carmichael said, 
Lady Arctura never thought of questioning. A lie is 
indeed a thing in its nature unbelievable, but there is a 
false belief always ready to receive the false truth, aud 
there is no end to the mischief the two can work. The 
awful punishment of untruth in the inward parts is that 
the man is given over to believe a lie. 

Lady Arctura was in herself a gentle creature who 
shrank from either giving or receiving a rough touch; but 
she had an inherited pride, by herself unrecognized as 
such, which made her capable of hurting as well as being 
hurt. Next to the doctrines of the Scottish Church, she 
respected her own family; it had in truth no other claim 
to respect than that its little good and much evil had been 
done before the eyes of a large part .of many generations 
— whence she was born to think herself distinguished, 
and to imagine a claim for the acknowledgment of distinc- 
tion upon all except those of greatly higher rank than 


TONAL GRANT. 


8 7 

her own. This inborn arrogance was in some degree 
modified by respect for the writers of certain books — not 
one of whom was of any regard in the eyes of the thinkers 
of the age. Of any writers of power, beyond those of the 
Bible, either in this country or another, she knew noth- 
ing. Yet she had a real instinct for what was good in 
literature; and of the writers to whom I have referred she 
not only liked the worthiest best, but liked best their best 
things. I need hardly say they were all religious writers, 
for the keen conscience and obedient heart of the girl had 
made her very early turn herself toward the quarter where 
the sun ought to rise, the quarter where all night long 
gleams the auroral hope; but unhappily she had not gone 
direct to the heavenly well in earthly ground — the words 
of the Master himself. How could she? From very 
childhood her mind had been filled with traditionary 
utterances concerning the divine character and the divine 
plans — the merest inventions of men far more desirous of 
understanding what they were not required to understand 
than of doing what they were required to do — whence 
their crude and false utterances concerning a God of their 
own fancy — in whom it was a good man’s duty, in the 
name of any possible god, to disbelieve; and just because 
she was true, authority had immense power over her. 
The very sweetness of their nature forbids such to doubt 
the fitness of others. 

She had besides had a governess of the orthodox type, a 
large proportion of whose teaching was of the worst heresy, 
for it was lies against Him who is light and in whom is no 
darkness at all; her doctrines were so many smoked glasses 
held up between the mind of her pupil and the glory of 
the living God; nor had she once directed her gaze to the 
very likeness of God, the face of Jesus Christ. Had 
Arctura set herself to understand him the knowledge of 
whom is eternal life, she would have believed none of 
these false reports of him, but she had not yet met with 
any one to help her to cast aside the doctrines of men, 
and go face to face with the Son of man, the visible God. 
First lie of all, she had been taught that she must believe 
so and so before God would let her come near him or 
listen to her. The old cobbler could have taught her 
differently; but she would have thought it improper to 
hold conversation with such a man, even if she had known 


88 


DONAL GRANT. 


him for the best man in Auchars. She was in sore and 
sad earnest to believe as she was told she must believe; 
therefore instead of beginning to do what Jesus Christ 
said, she tried hard to imagine herself one of the chosen, 
tried hard to believe herself the chief of sinners. There 
was no one to tell her that it is only the man who sees 
something of the glory of God, the height and depth and 
breadth and length of his love and unselfishness, not.a 
child dabbling in stupid doctrines, that can feel like St. 
Paul. She tried to feel that she deserved to be burned in 
hell forever and ever, and that it was boundlessly good of 
God — who made her so that she could not help being a 
sinner — to give her the least chance of escaping it. She 
tried to feel that though she could not be saved without 
something which the God of perfect love could give her 
if he pleased, but might not please to give her, yet if she 
was not saved it would be all her own fault: and so ever 
the round of a great miserable treadmill of contradictious! 
For a moment she would be able to say this or that she 
thought she ought to say; the next the feeling would be 
gone, and she as miserable as before. Her friend made no 
attempt to imbue her with her own calm indifference, nor 
could she have succeeded had she attempted it. But 
though she had never been troubled herself, and that 
because she had never been in earnest, she did not find it 
the dess easy to take upon her the role of a spiritual ad- 
viser, and give no end of counsel for the attainment of 
assurance. She told her truly enough that all her trouble 
came of want of faith; but she showed her no one fit to 
believe in. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A CLASH. 

All this time, Donal had never again seen the earl, 
neither had the latter shown any interest in Davie’s prog- 
ress. But Lady Arctura was full of serious anxiety con- 
cerning him. Heavily prejudiced against the tutor, she 
dreaded his influence on the mind of her little cousin. 

There was a small recess in the schoolroom — it had 
been a bay-window, but from an architectural necessity 
arising from decay, it had, all except a narrow eastern 


DONAL GRANT. 


89 


light, beep built up — and in this recess Donal was one day 
sitting with a book, while Davie was busy writing at the 
table in the middle of the room : it was past school hours, 
but the weather did not invite them out of doors, and 
Donal had given Davie a poem to copy. Lady Arctura 
came into the room — she had never entered it before since 
Donal came — and thinking he was alone, began to talk to 
the boy. She spoke in so gentle a tone that Donal, busy 
with his book, did not for some time distinguish a word 
she said. He never suspected she was unaware of his 
presence. By degrees her voice grew a little louder, and 
by and by these words reached him : 

“You know, Davie dear, every sin, whatever it is, de- 
serves God’s wrath and curse, both in this life and that 
which is to come; and if it had not been that Jesus Christ 
gave himself to turn away his anger and satisfy his justice 
by bearing the punishment for us, God would send us all 
to the place of misery forever and ever. It is for his sake, 
not for ours, that he pardons us.” 

She had not yet ceased when Donal rose in the wrath of 
love, and came out into the room. 

“Lady Arctura,” he said, “I dare not sit still and hear 
such false things uttered against the blessed God!” 

Lady Arctura started in dire dismay, but in virtue of 
her breed and her pride recovered herself immediately, 
arew herself up, and said : 

“Mr. Grant, you forget yourself!” 

“I’m very willing to do that, my lady,” answered 
Donal, “but I must not forget the honor of my God. If 
you were a heathen woman I might think whether the 
hour was come for enlightening you further, but to hear 
one who has had the Bible in her hands from her child- 
hood say such things about the God who made her and 
sent his Son to save her, without answering a word for 
him, would be cowardly!” 

“What do you know about such things? What gives 
you a right to speak?” said Lady Arctura. 

Her pride-strength was already beginning to desert her. 

“I had a Christian mother,” answered Donal — “have 
her yet, thank God! — who taught me to love nothing but 
the truth; I have studied the Bible from my childhood, 
often whole days together, when I was out with the cattle 
or the sheep; and I have tried to do what the Lord tells 


90 


DONAL GRANT. 


me, from nearly the earliest time I can remember. There- 
fore I am able to set to my seal that God is true — that he 
is light, and there is no darkness of unfairness or selfish- 
ness in him. I love God with my whole heart and soul, 
my lady.” 

Arctura tried to say she too loved him so, but her con- 
science interfered, and she could not. 

“I don’t say you don’t love him,” Donal went on; “but 
how you can love him and believe such things of him, I 
don’t understand. Whoever taught them first was a ter- 
rible liar against God, who is lovelier than all the imag- 
inations of all his creatures can think.” 

Lady Arctura swept from the room — though she was 
trembling from head to foot. At the door she turned and 
called Davie. The boy looked up in his tutor’s face, 
mutely asking if he should obey her. 

“Go,” said Donal. 

In less than a minute he came back, his eyes full of 
tears. 

“Arkie says she is going to tell papa. Is it true, Mr. 
Grant, that you are a dangerous man? I do not believe 
it — though you do carry such a big knife.” 

Donal laughed. 

“It is my grandfather’s skean dhu,” he said. “I mend 
my pens with it, you know! But it is strange, Davie, 
that when a body knows something other people don’t, 
they should be angry with him! They will even think he 
wants to make them bad when he wants to help them to 
be good !” 

“But Arkie is good, Mr. Grant!” 

“I am sure she is. But she does not know so much 
about God as I do, or she would never say such things of 
him: we must talk about him more after this!” 

“No, no, please, Mr. Grant! We won’t say a word 
about him, for Arkie says except you promise never to 
speak of God, she will tell papa, and he will send you 
away.” 

“Davie,” said Donal with solemnity, “I would not give 
such a promise for the castle and all it contains — no, not 
to save your life and the life of everybody in it! For 
Jesus says, ‘Whosoever denieth me before men, him will 
I deny before my Father in heaven;’ and rather than 
that I would jump from the top of the castle. Why, 
Davie! would a man deny his own father or mother?” 


DONAL GRANT. 


91 


“I don't know,” answered Davie; “I don’t remember 
my mother.” 

“I’ll tell you what,” said Donal, with sudden inspira- 
tion : “I will promise not to speak about God at any other 
time, if she will promise to sit by when I do speak of him 
— say once a week. Perhaps we shall do what he tells us 
all the better that we don’t talk so much about him!” 

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Grant! I will tell her,” cried 
Davie, jumping up relieved. “Oh, thank you, Mr. 
Grant!” he repeated; “I could not bear you to go away. 
I should never stop crying if you did. And you won’t 
say any wicked things, will you? for Arkie reads her 
Bible every day.” 

“So do I, Davie.” 

“Do you?” returned Davie. “I’ll tell her that too, 
and then she will see she must have been mistaken.” 

He hurried to his cousin with Donal’s suggestion. 

It threw her into no small perplexity — first from doubt 
as to the propriety of the thing proposed, next because of 
the awkwardness of it, and then from a sudden fear lest 
his specious tongue should lead herself into the bypaths 
of doubt, and to the castle of Giant Despair — at which, 
indeed, it was a gracious wonder she had not arrived ere 
now. What if she should be persuaded of things which it 
was impossible to believe and be saved ! She did not see 
that such belief as she desired to have was in itself essen- 
tial damnation. For what can there be in heaven or earth 
for a soul that believes in an unjust God? To rejoice in 
such a belief would be to be a devil, and to believe what 
canuot be rejoiced in is misery. No doubt a man may 
not see the true nature of the things he thinks he believes, 
but that cannot save him from the loss of not knowing 
God, whom to know is alone eternal life; for who can 
know him that believes evil things of him? That many 
a good man does believe such things only argues his heart 
not yet one toward him. To make his belief possible he 
must dwell on the good things he has learned about God 
and not think about the bad things. 

And what would Sophia say? Lady Arctura would 
have sped to her friend for counsel before giving any 
answer to the audacious proposal, but she was just then 
from home for a fortnight, and she must resolve without 
her! She reflected also that she had not yet anything 


92 


DONAL GRANT. 


sufficiently definite to say to her uncle about the young 
man’s false doctrine; and, for herself, concluded that, as 
she was well grounded for argument, knowing thoroughly 
the Shorter Catechism with the proofs from Scripture of 
every doctrine it contained, it was foolish to fear anything 
from one who went in the strength of his own ignorant 
and presumptuous will, regardless of the opinions of the 
fathers of the church, and accepting only such things as 
were pleasing to his unregenerate nature. 

But she hesitated; and after waiting for a whole week 
without receiving any answer to his proposal, Donal said 
to Davie: 

“We shall have a lesson in the New Testament to- 
morrow: you had better mention it to your cousin.” 

The next morning he asked him if he had mentioned 
it. The boy said he had. 

“What did she say, Davie?” 

“Nothing — only looked strange,” answered Davie. 

When the hour of noon was past, and Lady Arctura did 
not appear, Donal said : 

“Davie, we’ll have our New Testament lesson out of 
doors: that is the best place for it!” 

“It is the best place!” responded Davie, jumping up. 
“But you’re not taking your book, Mr. Grant!” 

“Never mind; I will give you a lesson or two without 
book first.” 

Just as they were leaving the room, appeared Lady 
Arctura with Miss Carmichael. 

“I understood,” said the former, with not a little 
haughtiness, “that you ” 

She hesitated, and Miss Carmichael took up the word. 

“We wish to form our own judgment,” she said, “on 
the nature of the religious instruction you give your 
pupil.” 

“I invited Lady Arctura to be present when I taught 
him about God,” said Donal. 

“Then are you not now going to do so?” said Arctura. 

“As your ladyship made no answer to my proposal, and 
school hours were over, I concluded you were not coming.” 

“And you would not give the lesson without her lady- 
ship!” said Miss Carmichael. “Very right!” 

“Excuse me,” returned Donal; “we were going to have 
it out of doors.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


93 


‘‘But you had agreed not to give him any so-called 
religious instruction but in the presence of Lady Arctura !” 

“By no means. I only offered to give it in her presence 
if she chose. There was no question of the lessons being 
given.” 

Miss Carmichael looked at Lady Arctura as much as to 
say: “Is he speaking the truth?” and if she replied, it 
was in the same fashion. 

Donal looked at Miss Carmichael. He did not at all 
relish her interference. He had never said he would give 
his lesson before any who chose to be present! But he 
did not see how to meet the intrusion. Neither could he 
turn back into the schoolroom, sit down, and begin. He 
put his hand on Davie’s shoulder and walked slowly 
toward the lawn. The ladies followed in silence. He 
sought to forget their presence, and be conscious only of 
his pupil’s and his Master’s. On the lawn he stopped 
suddenly. 

“Davie,” he said, “where do you fancy the first lesson 
in the New Testament ought to begin?” 

“At the beginning,” replied Davie. 

“When a thing is perfect, Davie, it is difficult to say 
what is the beginning of it : show- me one of your marbles.” 

The boy produced from his pocket a pure white one — a 
real marble. 

“That is a good one for the purpose,” remarked Donal, 
“very smooth and white, with just one red streak in it! 
Now, where is the beginning of this marble?” 

“Nowhere,” answered Davie. 

“If I should say everywhere?” suggested Donal. 

“Ah, yes!” said the boy. 

“But I agree with you that it begins nowhere.” 

“It can’t do both!” 

“Oh, yes, it can! it begins nowhere for itself, but every- 
where for us. Only all its beginnings are endings, and 
all its endings are beginnings. Look here: suppose we ‘ 
begin at this red streak, it is just there we should end 
again. That is because it is a perfect thing. Well, there 
was One who said, ‘I am Alpha and Omega’ — the first 
Greek letter and the last, you know— ‘the beginning and 
the end, the first and the last.’ All the New Testament 
is about him. He is perfect, and I may begin about him 
where I best can. Listen, then, as if you had never heard 


94 


DONAL GRANT. 


anything about him before. Many years ago — about fifty 
or sixty grandfathors off — there appeared in the world a 
few men who said that a certain man had been their com- 
panion for some time, and had just left them: that he 
was killed by cruel men, and buried by his friends; but 
that, as he had told them he would, he lay in the grave 
only three days, and left it on the third alive and well; 
and that, after forty days, during which they saw him 
several times, he went up into the sky, and disappeared. 
It wasn’t a very likely story, was it?” 

“No,” replied Davie. 

The ladies exchanged looks of horror. Neither spoke, 
but each leaned eagerly forward, in fascinated expectation 
of worse to follow. 

“But, Davie,” Donal went on, “however unlikely it 
must have seemed to those who heard it, I believe every 
word of it.” 

A ripple of contempt passed over Miss Carmichael’s 
face. 

“For,” continued Donal, “the man said he was the Son 
of God, come down from his Father to see his brothers, 
his Father’s children, and take home with him to his 
Father those who would go.” 

“Excuse me,” interrupted Miss Carmichael, with a 
pungent smile: “what he said was that if any man be- 
lieved in him, he should be saved.” 

“Run along, Davie,” said Donal. “I will tell you more 
of what he said next lesson. Don’t forget what I’ve told 
you now.” 

“No, sir,” answered Davie, and ran off. 

Donal lifted his hat, and would have gone toward the 
river. But Miss Carmichael, stepping forward, said: 

“Mr. Grant, I cannot let you go till you answer me one 
question: do you believe in the atonement?” 

“I do,” answered Donal. 

“Favor me, then, with your views upon it,” she said. 

“Are you troubled in your mind on the subject?” asked 
Donal. 

“Not in the least,” she replied, with a slight curl of 
her lip. 

“Then I see no occasion for giving you my views.” 

“But I insist.” 

Donal smiled. 


DONAL GRANT. 


95 


“Of what consequence can my opinions be to you, 
ma’am? Why should you compel a confession of my 
faith?” 

“As the friend of this family, and the daughter of the 
clergyman of this parish, I have a right to ask what your 
opinions are: you have a most important charge com- 
mitted to you — a child for whose soul you have to account!” 

“For that I am accountable, but, pardon me, not to 
you.” 

“You are accountable to Lord Morven for what you 
teach his child.” 

“I am not.” 

“What! He will turn you away at a moment’s notice 
if you say so to him.” 

“I should be quite ready to go. If I were accountable 
to him for what I taught, I should of course teach only 
what he pleased. But do you suppose I would take any 
situation on such a condition?” 

“It is nothing to me, or his lordship either, I presume, 
what you would or would not do.” 

“Then I see no reason why you should detain me. 
Lady Arctura, I did not offer to give my lesson in the 
presence of any other than yourself: I will not do so 
again. You will be welcome, for you have a right to 
know what I am teaching him. If you bring another, 
except it be my Lord Morven, I will take Davie to my 
own room.” 

With these words he left them. 

Lady Arctura was sorely bewildered. She could not 
but feel that her friend had not shown to the better ad- 
vantage, and that the behavior of Donal had been digni- 
fied. But surely he was very wrong! what he said to 
Davie sounded so very different from what was said at 
church, and by her helper, Miss Carmichael! It was a 
pity they had heard so little! He would have gone on if 
only Sophy had had patience and held her peace ! Per- 
haps he might have spoken better things if she had not 
interfered! It would hardly be fair to condemn him upon 
so little! He had said that he believed every word of the 
New Testament— or something very like it! 

“I have heard enough!” said Miss Carmichael: “I will 
speak to my father at once.” 

The next ( day Donal received a note to the following 
effect ; 


96 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Sir: In consequence of what I feltbonnd to report to 
my father of the conversation we had yesterday, he de- 
sires that you will call upon him at your earliest con- 
venience. He is generally at home from three to five. 

“Yours truly, 

“Sophia Agues Carmichael.” 

To this Donal immediately replied : 

“Madam: Notwithstanding the introduction I brought 
him from another clergyman, your father declined my 
acquaintance, passing me afterward as one unknown to 
him. From this fact, and from the nature of the report 
which your behavior to me yesterday justifies me in sup- 
posing you must have carried to him, I can hardly mis- 
take his object in wishing to see me. I will attend to the 
call of no man to defend my opinions; your father’s I 
have heard almost every Sunday since I came to the cas- 
tle, and have been from childhood familiar with them. 

“Yours truly, 

“Donal Grant.” 

Not a word more came to him from either of them. 
When they happened to meet, Miss Carmichael took no 
more notice of him than her father. 

But she impressed it upon the mind of her friend that 
if unable to procure his dismissal, she ought at least to 
do what she could to protect her cousin from the awful 
consequences of such false teaching: if she was present, 
he would not say such things as he would in her absence, 
for it was plain he was under restraint with her! She 
might even have some influence with him if she would 
but take courage to show him where he was wrong! Or she 
might find things such that her uncle must see the neces- 
sity of turning him away; as the place belonged to her, 
he would never go dead against her! She did not see 
that that was just the thing to fetter the action of a deli- 
cate-minded girl. 

Continually haunted, however, with the feeling that 
she ought to do something, Lady Arctura felt as if she 
dared not absent herself from the lesson, however dis- 
agreeable it might prove: that much she could do! Upon 
the next occasion, therefore, she appeared in the school* 


DONAL GRANT. 


97 


room at the hour appointed, and with a cold bow took the 
chair Donal placed for her. 

“Now, Davie, ” said Donal, “what have you done since 
our last lesson?” 

Davie stared. 

“You didn’t tell me to do anything, Mr. Grant!” 

“No; but what then did I give you the lesson for? 
Where is the good of such a lesson if it makes no differ- 
ence to you? What was it I told you?” 

Davie, who had never thought about it since, the lesson 
having been broken off before Donal could bring it to its 
natural fruit, considered, and said: 

“That Jesus Christ rose from the dead.” 

“Well — where is the good of knowing that?” 

Davie was silent; he knew no good of knowing it, neither 
could he imagine any. The Catechism, of which he had 
learned about half, suggested nothing. 

“Come, Davie, I will help you: is Jesus dead, or is he 
alive?” 

Davie considered. 

“Alive,” he answered. 

“What does he do?” 

Davie did not know. 

“What did he die for?” 

Here Davie made an answer — a cut-and-dried one: 

“To take away our sins,” he said. 

“Then what does he live for?” 

Davie was once more silent. 

“Do you think if a man died for a thing, he would be 
likely to forget it the minute he rose again?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Do you not think he would just go on doing the same 
thing as before?” 

“I do, sir.” 

“Then, as he died to take away our sins, he lives to 
take them away!” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What are sins, Davie?” 

“Bad things, sir.” 

“Yes; the bad things we think, and the bad things we 
feel, and the bad things we do. Have you any sins, 
Davie?” 

*‘Yes; I am very wicked.” 


93 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Oh! are you? How do you know it?” 

“Arkie told me.” 

“What is being wicked?” 

“Doing bad things.” 

“What bad things do you do?” 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

“Then you don’t know that you are wicked; you only 
know that Arkie told you so!” 

Lady Arctura drew herself up; but Donal was too in- 
tent to perceive the offense he had given. 

“I will tell you,” Donal went on, “something you did 
wicked to-day.” Davie grew rosy red. “When we find 
out one wicked thing we do, it is a beginning to finding 
out all the wicked things we do. Some people would 
rather not find them out, but have them hidden from 
themselves and from God too. But let us find them out, 
every one of them, that we may ask Jesus to take them 
away, and help Jesus to take them away, by fighting 
them with all our strength. This morning you pulled 
the little pup’s ears till he screamed.” Davie hung his 
head. “You stopped awhile, and then did it again! I 
knew it wasn’t that you didn’t know. Is that a thing 
Jesus would have done when he was a little boy?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it would have been wrong.” 

“I suspect, rather, it is because he woald have loved 
the little pup. He didn’t have to think about its being 
wrong. He loves every kind of living thing. He wants 
to take away your sin because he loves you. He doesn’t 
merely want to make yon not cruel to the little pup, but 
to take away the wrong think that doesn’t love him. He 
wants to make you love every living creature. Davie, 
Jesus came out of the grave to make us good.” 

Tears were flowing down Davie’s cheeks. 

“The lesson’s done, Davie,” said Donal, and rose and 
went, leaving him with Lady Arctura. 

But ere he reached the door, he turned with a sudden 
impulse, and said: 

“Davie, I love Jesus Christ and his Father more than 
I can tell you — more than I can put in words— more than 
I can think, and if you love me you wi-11 mind what Jesus 
tells you.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


99 


“What a good man yon must be, Mr. Grant! Mustn’t 
he, Arkie?” sobbed Davie. 

Donal laughed. 

“What, Davie!” he exclaimed. “You think me very 
good for loving the only good person in the whole world ! 
That is very odd! Why, Davie, I should be the most 
contemptible creature, knowing him as I do, not to love 
him with all my heart — yes, with all the big heart I shall 
have one day when he has done making me.” 

“Is he making you still, Mr. Grant? I thought you 
were grown up!” 

“Well, I don’t think he will make me any taller,” 
answered Donal. “But the live part of me — the thing I 
love you with, the thing I think about God with, the 
thing I love poetry with, the thing I read the Bible with 
— that thing God keeps on making bigger and bigger. I 
do not know where it will stop, I only know where it will 
not stop. That thing is me, and God will keep on mak- 
ing it bigger to all eternity, though he has not even got 
it into the right shape yet.” 

“Why is he so long about it?” 

“I don’t think he is long about it; but he could do it 
quicker if I were as good as by this time I ought to be, 
with the father and mother I have, and all my long hours 
on the hillsides with my New Testament and the sheep. 
I prayed to God on the hill and in the fields, and he heard 
me, Davie, and made me see the foolishness of many 
things, and the grandeur and beauty of other things. 
Davie, God wants to give you the whole world, and every- 
thing in it. W T hen you have begun to do the things Jesus 
tells you, then you will be my brother, and we shall both 
be his little brothers, and the sons of his Father, God, and 
so the heirs of all things.” 

With that he turned again and went. 

The tears were rolling down Arctura’s face without her 
being aware of it. 

“He is a well-meaning man,” she said to herself, “but 
dreadfully mistaken: the Bible says believe, not do!” 

The poor girl, though she read her Bible regularly, was 
so blinded by the dust and ashes of her teaching that she 
knew very little of what was actually in it. The most 
significant things slipped from her as if they were merest 
words without shadow of meaning or intent: they did not 


L. of C. 


100 


DONAL GRANT. 


support the doctrines she had been taught, and therefore 
said nothing to her. The story of Christ and the appeals 
of those who had handled the Word of Life had another 
end in view than making people understand how God 
arranged matters to save them. God would have us live: 
if we live we cannot hut know: all the knowledge in the 
universe could not make us live. Obedience is the road 
to all things— the only way in which to grow able to trust 
him. Love and faith and obedience are sides of the 
same prism. 

Regularly after that, Lady Arctura came to the lesson 
— always intending to object as soon as it was over. But 
always before the end came, Donal had said something 
that went so to the heart of the honest girl that she could 
say nothing. As if she too had been a pupil, as indeed 
she was, far more than either knew, she would rise when 
Davie rose, and go away with him. But it was to go alone 
into the garden, or to her room, not seldom finding her- 
self wishing things true which yet she counted terribly 
dangerous: listening to them might not she as well as 
Davie fail miserably of escape from the wrath to come? 


CHAPTER £IX. 

THE FACTOR. 

The old avenue of beeches, leading immediately no- 
whither any more, but closed at one end by a built-up 
gate, and at the other by a high wall, between which two 
points it stretched quite a mile, was a favorite resort of 
Donal’s, partly for its beauty, partly for its solitude. 
The arms of the great trees crossing made of it a long 
aisle — its roof a broken vault of leaves, upheld by irreg i- 
lar pointed arches — which affected one’s imagination like 
an ever-shifting dream of architectural suggestion. Hav- 
ing ceased to be a way, it was now all but entirely de- 
serted, and there was eeriness in the vanishing vista that 
showed nothing beyond. When the wind of the twilight 
sighed in gusts through its moanful crowd of fluttered 
leaves; or when the wind of the winter was tormenting 
the ancient haggard boughs, and the trees looked as if 
they were weary of the world, and longing after the gar- 


DONAL GRANT. 


101 


den of God; yet more when the snow lay heavy upon their 
branches, sorely trying their aged strength to support its 
oppression, and giving the on-looker a vague sense of what 
the world would be if God were gone from it — then the 
old avenue was a place from which one with more imag- 
ination than courage would be ready to haste away, and 
seek instead the abodes of men. But Donal, though he 
dearly loved his neighbor, and that in the fullest concrete 
sense, was capable of loving the loneliest spots, for in such 
he was never alone. 

It was altogether a neglected place. Long grass grew 
over its floor from end to end — cut now and then for hay, 
or to feed such animals as had grass in their stalls. Along 
one border, outside the trees, went a foot-path — so little 
used that, though not quite conquered by the turf, the 
long grass often met over the top of it. Finding it so 
lonely, Donal grew more and more fond of it. It was his 
out-door study, his jtpods vxn — a little aisle of the great 
temple! Seldom indeed was his reading or meditation 
there interrupted by sight of human being. 

About a month after he had taken up his abode at the 
castle, he was lying one day in the grass with a book- 
companion, under the shade of one of the largest of its 
beeches, when he felt through the ground ere he heard 
through the air the feet of an approaching horse. As 
they came near, he raised his head to see. His unex- 
pected appearance startled the horse, his rider nearly lost 
his seat, and did lose his temper. Recovering the former, 
and holding the excited animal, which would have been 
off at full speed, he urged him toward Donal, whom he 
took for a tramp. He was rising — deliberately, that he 
might not do more mischief, and was yet hardly on his 
feet, when the horse, yielding to the spur, came straight 
at him, its rider with his whip lifted. Donal took off his 
bonnet, stepped a little aside, and stood. His bearing 
and countenance calmed the horseman’s rage; there was 
something in them to which no gentleman could fail of 
response. 

The rider was plainly one who had more to do with 
affairs bucolic than with those of cities or courts, but 
withal a man of conscious dignity, socially afloat, and able 
to hold his own. 

“What the devil ” he cried— for nothing is so 


102 


DONAL GRANT. 


irritating to a horseman as to come near losing his seat, 
except perhaps to lose it altogether, and indignation 
against the cause of an untoward accident is generally a 
mortal’s first consciousness thereupon; however foolishly, 
he feels himself injured. But there, having better taken 
in Donal’s look, he checked himself. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Donal. “It was foolish 
of me to show myself so suddenly; I might have thought 
it would startle most horses. I was too absorbed to have 
my wits about me.” 

The gentleman lifted his hat. 

“I beg your pardon in return,” he said with a smile 
which cleared every cloud from his face. “I took you 
for some one who had no business here; hut I imagine you 
are the tutor at the castle, with as good a right as I have 
myself.” 

“You guess well, sir.” 

“Pardon me that I forget your name.” 

“My name is Donal Grant,” returned Donal, with an 
accent on the my intending a wish to know in return that 
of the speaker. 

“I am a Graeme,” answered the other, “one of the 
clan, and factor to the earl. Come and see where I live. 
My sister will be glad to make your acquaintance. We 
lead rather a lonely life here, and don’t see too many 
agreeable people.” 

“You call this lonely, do you!” said Donal thought- 
fully. “It is a grand place, anyhow!” 

“You are right — as you see it now. But wait till winter! 
Then perhaps yon will change your impression a little.” 

“Pardon me if I doubt whether you know what winter 
can be so well as I do. This east coast is by all accounts 
a bitter place, but I fancy it is only upon a great hillside 
you can know the heart and soul of a snow-blast.” 

“I yield that,” returned Mr. Graeme. “It is bitter 
enough here, though, and a mercy we can keep warm in- 
doors.” 

“Which is often more than we shepherd -folk can do,” 
said Donal. Mr. Graeme used to say afterward he was 
never so immediately taken with a man. It was one of 
the charms of Donal’s habit of being, that he never spoke 
as if he belonged to any other than the class in which he 
had been born and brought up. This came partly of 


DONAL GRANT. 


103 


pride in his father and mother, partly of inborn dignity, 
and partly of religion. To him the story of our Lord 
was the reality it is, and he rejoiced to know himself so 
nearly on the same social level of birth as the Master of 
his life and aspiration. It was Donal’s one ambition — to 
give the high passion a low name — to be free with the 
freedom which was his natural inheritance, and which is 
to be gained only by obedience to the words of the Mas- 
ter. From the face of this aspiration fled every kind of 
pretense as from the light flies the darkness. Hence he 
was entirely and thoroughly a gentleman. What if his 
clothes were not even of the next to the newest cut! 
What if he had not been used to what is called society! 
He was far above such things. If he might but attain to 
the manners of the “high countries, ” manners which 
appear because they exist — because they are all through 
the man! He did not think what he might seem in the 
eyes of men. Courteous, helpful, considerate, always 
seeking first how far he could honestly agree with any 
speaker, opposing never save sweetly and apologetically — 
except indeed some utterance flagrantly unjust were in 
his ears — there was no man of true breeding, in or out of 
“society, ” who would not have granted that Donal was fit 
company for any man or woman. Mr. Graeme’s eye 
glanced down over the tall square-shouldered form, a little 
stooping from lack of drill and much meditation, but 
instantly straightening itself upon any inward stir, and he 
said to himself: “This is no common man!” 

They were moving slowly along the avenue, Donal by 
the rider’s near knee, talking away like men not unlikely 
soon to know each other better. 

“You don’t make much use of this avenue!” said 
Donal. 

“No; its use is an old story. The castle was for a time 
deserted, and the family, then passing through a phase of 
comparative poverty, lived in the house we are in now — 
to my mind much the more comfortable.” 

“What a fine old place it must he, if such trees are a 
fit approach to it!” 

“They were never planted for that; they are older far. 
Either there was a wood here, and the rest were cut 
down and these left, or there was once a house much older 
than the present. The look of the garden, and some of 
the offices, favor the latter idea.” 


104 


DONAL GRANT. 


“I have never seen the house, ” said Donal. 

“You have not then been much about yet?” said Mr. 
Graeme. 

“I have been so occupied with my pupil, and so delighted 
with all that lay immediately around me, that I have gone 
nowhere — except, indeed, to see Andrew Comin, the 
cobbler.” 

“Ah, you know him! I have heard of him as a re- 
markable man. There was a clergyman here from Glas- 
gow — I forget his name — so struck with him he seemed 
actually to take him for a prophet. He said he was a 
survival of the old mystics. For my part I have no turn 
for extravagance.” 

“But,” said Donal, in the tone of one merely suggest- 
ing a possibility, “a thing that from the outside may seem 
an extravagance may look quite different when you get in- 
side it.” 

“The more reason for keeping out of it ! If acquaintance 
must make you in love with it, the more air between you 
and it the better!” 

“Would not such precaution as that keep you from gain- 
ing a true knowledge of many things? Nothing almost 
can be known from what people say.” 

“True; but there are things so plainly nonsense!” 

“Yes; but there are things that seem to be nonsense, 
because the man thinks he knows what they are when he 
does not. Who would know the shape of a chair who 
took his idea of it from its shadow on the floor? What 
idea can a man have of religion who knows nothing of it 
except from what he hears at church?” 

Mr. Graeme was not fond of going to church, yet went: 
he was the less displeased with the remark. But he made 
no reply, and the subject dropped. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE OLD GARDEN. 

The avenue seemed to Donal about to stop dead against 
a high wall, but ere they quite reached the end, they 
turned at right angles, skirted the wall for some distance, 
then turned again with it. t It was a somewhat dreary wall 


DONAL GRANT. 


105 


—of gray stone, with mortar as gray — not like the rich- 
colored walls of old red brick one meets in England. But 
its roof-like coping was crowned with tufts of wall-plants, 
and a few lichens did something to relieve the grayness. 
It guided them to a farm-yard. Mr. Graeme left his 
horse at the stable and led the way to the house. 

They entered it by a back door whose porch was covered 
with ivy, and going through several low passages, came 
to the other side of the house. There Mr. Graeme 
showed Donal into a large, low-ceiled, old-fashioned 
drawing-room, smelling of ancient rose-leaves, their odor 
of sad hearts rather than of withered dowers— and leaving 
him went to find his sister. 

Glancing about him Donal saw a window open to the 
ground, and went to it. Beyond lay a more fairy-like 
garden than he had ever dreamed of. But he had read 
of, though never looked on, such and seemed to know it 
from times of old. It was laid out in straight lines, with 
soft walks of old turf, and in it grew all kinds of straight 
aspiring things: their ambition seemed — to get up, not to 
spread abroad. He stepped out of the window, drawn as 
by the enchantment of one of childhood’s dreams, and 
went wandering down a broad walk, his foot sinking deep 
in the velvety grass, and the loveliness ot the dream did 
not fade. Hollyhocks, gloriously impatient, whose flowers 
could not wait to reach the top ere they burst into the 
flame of life, making splendid blots of color along their 
ascending stalks, received him like stately dames of faerie, 
and enticed him, gently eager for more, down the long 
walk between rows of them — deep red and creamy white, 
primrose and yellow: sure they were leading him to some 
wonderful spot, some nest of lovely dreams and more 
lovely visions! The walk did lead to a bower of roses — a 
bed surrounded with a trellis, on which they climbed and 
made a huge bonfire — altar of incense rather, glowing with 
red and white flame. It seemed more glorious than his 
brain could receive. Seeing was hardly believing, but 
believing was more than seeing: though nothing is too 
good to be true, many things are too good to be grasped. 

“Poor misbelieving birds of God,” he said to himself, 
“we hover about a whole wood of the trees of life, ventur- 
ing only here and there a peck, as if their fruit might be 
poison, and the design of our creation was our ruin! We 


106 


DONAL GRANT. 


shake our wise, owl-feathered heads, and declare they 
cannot be the trees of life; that were too good to be true! 
Ten times more consistent are they who deny there is a 
God at all than they who believe in a middling kind of 
God — except indeed that they place in him a fitting 
faith !” 

The thoughts rose gently in his full heart as the 
flowers, one after the other, stole in at his eyes, looking 
up from the dark earth like the spirits of its hidden jewels, 
which themselves could not reach the sun, exhaled in 
longing. Over grass which fondled his feet like the lap 
of an old nurse, he walked slowly round the bed of the 
roses, turning again toward the house. But there, half- 
way between him and it, was the lady of the garden de- 
scending to meet him! — not ancient like the garden, but 
young like its flowers, light-footed, and full of life. 

Prepared by her brother to be friendly, she met him 
with a pleasant smile, and he saw that the light which 
shone in her dark eyes had in it rays of laughter. She 
had a dark, yet clear complexion, a good forehead, a nose 
after no recognized generation of noses, yet an attractive 
one, a mouth larger than to human judgment might have 
seemed necessary, yet a right pleasing mouth, with two 
rows of lovely teeth. All this Donal saw approach with- 
out dismay. He was no more shy with women than with 
men; while none the less his feeling toward them partook 
largely of the reverence of the ideal knight-errant. He 
would not indeed have been shy in the presence of an 
angel of God, for his ouly courage came of truth, and 
clothed in the dignity of his reverence, he could look in 
the face of the lovely without perturbation. He would not 
have sought to hide from Him whose voice was in the 
garden, but would have made haste to cast himself at his 
feet. 

Bonnet in hand he advanced to meet Kate Graeme. 
She held out to him a well-shaped, good-sized hand, not 
ignorant of work — capable indeed of milking a cow to the 
cow’s satisfaction. Then he saw that her chin was strong, 
and her dark hair not too tidy; that she was rather tall, 
and slenderly conceived, though plum ply carried out. Her 
light approach pleased him. He liked the way her foot 
pressed the grass. P Donal loved anything in the green 
world, it was neither roses nor hollyhocks, nor even sweet 


DONAL GRANT. 


107 


peas, but the grass that is trodden under foot, that springs 
in all waste places, and has so often to be glad of the dews 
of heaven to heal the hot cut of the scythe. He had long 
abjured the notion of anything in the vegetable kingdom 
being without some sense of life, without pleasure and 
pain also, in mild form and degree. 


CHAPTER XXL 

A FIRST MEETING. 

He took her hand, and felt it an honest one — a safe, 
comfortable hand. 

“My brother told me he had brought yon,” she said. 
“I am glad to see you.” 

“You are very kind,” said Donah “How did either 
of you know of my existence? A few minutes back, I was 
not aware of yours.” 

Was it a rude utterance? He was silent a moment with 
the silence that promises speech, then added: 

“Has it ever struck you how many born friends there 
are in the world who never meet — persons to love each 
other at first sight, but who never in this world have that 
sight?” 

“No,” returned Miss Graeme, with a merrier laugh 
than quite responded to the remark, “I certainly never 
had such a thought. I take the people that come, and 
never think of those who do not. But of course it must 
be so.” 

“To be in the world is to have a great many brothers 
and sisters you do not know!” said Donal. 

“My mother told me,” she rejoined, “of a man who 
had had so many wives and children that his son, whom 
she had met, positively did not know all his brothers and 
sisters.” 

“I suspect,” said Donal, “we have to know our brothers 
and sisters.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“We have even got to feel a man is our brother the 
moment we see him,” pursued Donal, enhancing his 
former remark. 

“That sounds alarming!” said Miss Graeme, with an- 


108 


DONAL GEANT. 


other laugh. “My little heart feels not large enough to 
receive so many.” 

“The worst of it is,” continued Donal, who once started 
was not ready to draw rein, “that those who chiefly advo- 
cate this extension of the family bonds begin by loving 
their own immediate relations less than anybody else. 
Extension with them means slackening — as if any one 
could learn to love more by loving less, or go on to do 
better without doing well! He who loves his own little 
will not love others much.” 

“But how can we love those who are nothing to us?” 
objected Miss Graeme. 

“That would be impossible. The family relations are 
for the sake of developing a love rooted in a far deeper 
though less recognized relation. But I beg your pardon, 
Miss Graeme. Little Davie alone is my pupil, and I for- 
got myself.” 

“I am very glad to listen to you,” returned Miss 
Graeme. “I cannot say I am prepared to agree with you. 
But it is something in this out of-the-way corner to hear 
talk from which it is even worth while to ditfer.” 

“Ah, you can have that here if you will!” 

“Indeed!” 

“I mean talk from which you would probably differ. 
There is an old man in the town who can talk better than 
ever I heard man before. But he is a poor man, with a 
despised handicraft, and none heed him. No community 
recognizes its great men till they are gone.” 

“Where is the use, then, of being great?” said Miss 
Graeme. 

“To be great,” answered Donal, “to which the desire 
to be known of men is altogether destructive. To be 
great is to seem little in the eyes of men.” 

Miss Graeme did not answer. She was not accustomed 
to consider things seriously. A good girl in a certain true 
sense, she had never, yet seen that she had to be better, 
or indeed to be anything. But she was able to feel, 
though she was far from understanding him, that Donal 
was in earnest, and that was much. To recognize that a 
man means something is a great step toward understand- 
ing him. 

“What a lovely garden this is!” remarked Donal after 
the sequent pause. ~ “I have never seen anything like it, ,? 


DONAL GRANT , . 


109 


“It is very old-fashioned,” she returned. “Do you 
not lind it very stiff and formal?” 

“Stately and precise, I should rather say.” 

“I do not mean I can help liking it — in a way.” 

“Who could help liking it that took his feeling from 
the garden itself, not from what people said about it!” 

“You cannot say it is like nature!” 

“Yes, it is very like human nature. Man ought to 
learn of nature, but not to imitate nature. His work is. 
through the forms that nature gives him, to express the 
idea or feeling that is in him. That is far more likely 
to produce things in harmony with nature than the at- 
tempt to imitate nature upon the small human scale.” 

“You are too much of a philosopher for me!” said Miss 
Graeme. “I dare say you are quite right, but I have 
never read anything about art, and cannot follow you.” 

“You have probably read as much as I have. I am only 
talking out of what necessity, the necessity for under- 
standing things, has made me think. One must get 
things brought together in one’s thoughts, if only to be 
able to go on thinking.” 

This, too, was beyond Miss Graeme. The silence again 
fell, and Donal let it lie, waiting for her to break it this 
time. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A TALK ABOUT GHOSTS. 

But again he was the first. 

They had turned and gone a good way down the long 
garden, and had again turned toward the house. 

“This place makes me feel as I never felt before,” he 
said. “There is such a wonderful sense of vanished life 
about it. The whole garden seems dreaming about things 
of long ago — when troops of ladies, now banished into 
pictures, wandered about the place, each full of her own 
thoughts and fancies of life, each looking at everything 
with ways of thinking as old-fashioned as her garments. 
I could not be here after nightfall without feeling as if 
every walk were answering to unseen feet, as if every tree 
might be hiding some lovely form, returned to dream 
over old memories.” 


110 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Where is the good of fancying what is not true? 1 
can’t care for what I know to be nonsense!” 

She was glad to find a spot where she could put down 
the foot of contradiction, for she came of a family known 
for what the neighbors called common sense, and in the 
habit of casting contempt upon everything characterized 
as superstition: she had now something to say for herself! 

“How do you know it is nonsense?” asked Donal, look- 
ing round in her face with a bright smile. 

“Not nonsense to keep imagining what nobody can 
see?” 

“I can only imagine what I do not see,” 

“Nobody ever saw such creatures as you suppose in any 
garden! Then why fancy the dead so uncomfoitable, or 
so ill looked after, that they come back to plague us?” 

“Plainly they have never plagued you much!” rejoined 
Donal, laughing. “But how often have you gone up and 
down these walks at dead of night?” 

“Never once,” answered Miss Graeme, not without a 
spark of indignation. “I never was so absurd !” 

“Then there may be a whole night-world that you know 
nothing about. You cannot tell that the place is not 
then thronged with ghosts: you have never given them 
a chance of appearing to you. I don’t say it is so, for I 
know nothing, or at least little, about such things. I 
have had no experience of the sort any more than you — 
and I have been out whole nights on the mountains when 
I was a shepherd.” 

“Why, then, should you trouble your fancy about 
them?” 

“Perhaps just for that reason.” 

“1 do not understand you.” 

“I mean, because I can come into no communication 
with such a world as may be about me, I therefore imag- 
ine it. If, as often as I walked abroad at night, I met 
and held converse with the disembodied, I should use my 
imagination little, but make many notes of facts. When 
what may be makes no show, what more natural than to 
imagine about it? What is the imagination here for?” 

“I do not know. The less one has to do with it the 
better.” - 

“Then the thing, whatever it be, should not be called 
a faculty, but a weakness’” 


DONAL GRANT . 


Ill 


“Yes.” 

“But the history of the world shows it could never 
have made progress without suggestion, upon which to 
ground experiments: whence may these suggestions come 
if not from the weakness or impediment called the imag- 
ination?” 

Again there was silence. Miss Graeme began to doubt 
whether it was possible to hold rational converse with a 
man who, the moment they began upon anything, went 
straight aloft into some high-flying region of which she 
knew and for which she cared nothing. But Donal’s 
unconscious desire was in reality to meet her upon some 
common plane of thought. He always wanted to meet 
his fellow, and hence that abundance of speech, which, 
however poetic the things he said, not a few called prosi- 
ness. 

“I should think,” resumed Miss Graeme, “if you want 
to work your imagination, you will find more scope for it 
at the castle than here! This is a poor modern place 
compared to that.” 

“It is a poor imagination,” returned Donal, “that re- 
quires age or any mere accessory to rouse it. The very 
absence of everything external, the bareness of the mere 
humanity involved, may in itself he an excitement greater 
than any accompaniment of the antique or the picturesque. 
But in this old-fashioned garden, in the midst of these 
old-fashioned flowers, with all the gentleness of old- 
fashioned life suggested by them, it is easier to imagine 
the people themselves than where all is so cold, hard, 
severe — so much on the defensive, as in that huge, sullen 
pile on the hill-top.” 

“I am afraid you find it dull up there!” said Miss 
Graeme. 

“Not at all,” replied Donal; “I have there a most in- 
teresting pupil. But indeed one who has been used to 
spend day after day alone, clouds and heather and sheep 
and dogs his companions, does not depend much for pas- 
time. Give me a chair and a table, fire enough to keep 
me from shivering, the few books I like best and writing 
materials, and I am absolutely content. But beyond these 
things I have at the castle a fine library — useless no doubt 
for most purposes of modern study, but full of precious 
old books. There I can at any moment be in the best 


112 


DONAL GRANT. 


of company! There is more of the marvelous in an old 
library than ever any magic could work!” 

“ 1 do not quite understand you,” said the lady. But 
she would have spoken nearer the truth if she had said 
she had not a glimmer of what he meant. 

“Let me explain!” said Donal: “what could necro- 
mancy, which is one of the branches of magic, do for one 
at the best?” 

“Well!” exclaimed Miss Graeme; “but I suppose if 
you believe in ghosts, you may as well believe in raising 
them !” 

“I did not mean to start any question about belief; I 
only wanted to suppose necromancy for the moment a 
fact, and put it at its best; suppose the magician could 
do for you all he professed, what would it amount to? 
Only this — to bring before your eyes a shadowy resem- 
blance of the form of flesh and blood, itself but a passing 
shadow, in which the man moved on the earth, and was 
known to his fellow-men. At best the necromancer 
might succeed in drawing from him some obscure utter- 
ance concerning your future, far more likely to destroy 
your courage than enable you to face what was before 
you; so that you would depart from your peep into the 
unknown, merely less able to encounter the duties of life.” 

“Whoever has a desire for such information must be 
made very different from me!” said Miss Graeme. 

“Are you sure of that? Did you never make yourself 
unhappy about what might be on its way to you, and wish 
you could know beforehand something to guide you how 
to meet it?” 

“I should have to think before answering that ques- 
tion.” 

“Now tell me — what can the art of writing, and its ex- 
pansion, or perhaps its development rather, in printing, 
do in the same direction as necromancy? May not a man 
well long after personal communication with this or that 
one of the greatest who have lived before him? I grant 
that in respect of some it can do nothing; but in respect 
of others, instead of mocking you with an airy semblance 
of their bodily forms and the murmur of a few doubtful 
words from their lips, it places in your hands a key to 
their inmost thoughts. Some would say this is not per- 
sonal communication; but it is far more personal than the 


DONAL GRANT. 


113 


other. A man’s personality does not consist in the clothes 
he wears; it only appears in them; no more does it con- 
sist in his body, but in him who wears it.” 

As he spoke, Miss Graeme kept looking him gravely in 
the face, manifesting, however, more respect than in- 
terest. She had been accustomed to a very ditferent tone 
in young men. She had found their main ambition to 
amuse; to talk sense about other matters than the imme- 
diate uses of this world was an out-of-the-way thing! I 
do not say Miss Graeme, even on the subject last in hand, 
appreciated the matter of Donal’s talk. She perceived 
he was in earnest, and happily was able to know a deep 
pond from a shallow one, but her best thought concern- 
ing him was — what a strange new specimen of humanity 
was here! 

The appearance of her brother coming down the walk 
put a stop to the conversation. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A TRADITION OF THE CASTLE. 

“Well,” he said as he drew near, “I am glad to see 
you two getting on so well!” 

“How do you know we are?” asked his sister, with 
something of the antagonistic tone which both in jest and 
earnest is too common between near relations. 

“Because you have been talking incessantly ever since 
you met.” 

“We have been only contradicting each other.” 

“I could tell that too by the sound of your voices; but 
I took it for a good sign.” 

“I fear you heard mine almost only!” said Donal. “I 
talk too much, and I fear I have gathered the fault in a 
way that makes it difficult of cure.” 

“How was it?” asked Mr. Graeme. 

“By having nobody to talk to. I learned it on the hill- 
side with the sheep and in the meadows with the cattle. 
At college I thought I was nearly cured of it; but now, 
in my comparative solitude at the castle, it seems to have 
returned.” 

“Come here,” said Mr. Graeme, “when you find it 


114 


DONAL GRANT. 


getting too much for yon: my sister is quite equal to the 
task of recuring you.” 

“She has not begun to use her power yet!” remarked 
Donal as Miss Graeme, in hoydenish yet not ungraceful 
fashion made an attempt to box the ear of her slanderous 
brother — a proceeding he had anticipated, and so was able 
to frustrate. 

“When she knows you better,” he said, “you will find 
my sister Kate more than your match.” 

“If I were a talker,” she answered, “Mr. Grant would 
be too much for me: he quite bewilders me! What do 
you think ! he has been actually trying to persuade me ” 

“I beg your pardon, Miss Graeme; I have been trying 
to persuade you of nothing.” 

“What! not to believe in ghosts and necromancy and 
witchcraft and the evil eye and ghouls and vampires, and 
I don’t know what all out of nursery stories and old 
annuals?” 

“I give you my word, Mr. Graeme,” returned Donal, 
laughing, “I have not been persuading your sister of any 
of these things! I am certain she could be persuaded of 
nothing of which she did not first see the common sense. 
What I did dwell upon, without a doubt she would accept 
it, was the evident fact that writing and printing have 
done more to bring us into personal relations with the 
great dead than necromancy, granting the magician the 
power he claimed, could ever do. For do we not come 
into contact with the being of a man when we hear hirft 
pour forth his thoughts of the things he likes best to 
think about into the ear of the universe? In such a 
position does the book of a great man place us! That 
was what I meant to convey to your sister.” 

“And,” said Mr. Graeme, “she was not such a goose 
as to fail of understanding you, however she may have 
chosen to put on the garb of stupidity.” 

“I am sure,” persisted Kate, “Mr. Grant talked so as 
to make me think he believed in necromancy and all that 
sort of thing!” 

“That may be,” said Donal; “but I did not try to per- 
suade you to believe.” 

“Oh, if you hold me to the letter!” cried Miss Graeme, 
coloring a little. “It would be impossible to get on with 
such a man,” she thought, “for he not only preached 


DONAL GRANT. 


115 


when you had no pulpit to protect you from him, but 
stuck so to his text that there was no amusement to be 
got out of the business!” 

She did not know that if she could have met him, 
breaking the ocean-tide of his thoughts with fitting oppo- 
sition, his answers would have come short and sharp as 
the flashes of waves on rocks. 

“If Mr. Grant believes in such things,” said Mr. 
Graeme, “he must find himself at home in the castle, 
every room of which may well be the haunt of some weary 
ghost!” 

“I do not believe,” said Donal, “that any work of man’s 
hands, however awful with crime done in it, can have 
nearly such an influence for belief in the marvelous as 
the still presence of live Nature. I never saw an old cas- 
tle before — at least not to make any close acquaintance 
with it — but there is not an aspect of the grim old survival 
up there, interesting as every corner of it is, that moves 
me like the mere thought of a hillside with the veil of 
the twilight coming down over it, making of it the last 
step of a stair for the descending foot of the Lord.” 

“Surely, Mr. Grant, you do not expect such a personal 
advent!” said Miss Graeme. 

“I should not like to say what I do or don’t expect,” 
answered Donal — and held his peace, for he saw he was 
but casting stumbling-blocks. 

The silence grew awkward; and Mr. Graeme’s good 
breeding called on him to say something; he supposed 
Donal felt himself snubbed by his sister. 

“If you are fond of the marvelous, though, Mr. Grant,” 
he said, “there are some old stories about the castle would 
interest you. One of them was brought to my mind the 
other day in the town. It is strange how superstition 
seems to have its ebbs and flows! A story or legend will 
go to sleep, and after a time revive with fresh interest, no 
one knows why.” 

“Probably,” said Donal, “it is when the tale comes to 
ears fitted for its reception. They are now in many 
counties trying to get together and store the remnants of 
such tales: possibly the wind of some such inquiry may 
have set old people recollecting and young people invent- 
ing. That would account for a good deal — would it not?” 

“Yes, but not for all, I think. There has been no such 


116 


DONAL GRANT. 


inquiry made anywhere near us, so far as I am aware. I 
went to the Morven Arms last night to meet a tenant, 
and found the tradesmen were talking, over their toddy, 
of various events at the castle, and especially of one, the 
most frightful of all. It should have been forgotten by 
this time, for the ratio of forgetting increases.” 

“I should like much to hear it,” said Donal. 

“Do tell him, Hector,” said Miss Graeme, “and I will 
watch his hair ” 

“It is the hair of those who mock at such things you 
should watch,” returned Donal. “Their imagination is 
so rarely excited that when it is, it affects their nerves 
more than the belief of others affects theirs.” 

“Now I have you!” cried Miss Graeme. “There you 
confess yourself a believer!” 

“I fear you have come to too general a conclusion. Be- 
cause I believe the Bible, do I believe everything that 
comes from the pulpit? Some tales I should reject with 
a contempt that would satisfy even Miss Graeme; of 
others I should say — ‘These seem as if they might be 
true;’ and of still others, ‘These ought to be true, I 
think.’ But do tell me the story.” 

“It is not,” replied Mr. Graeme, “a very peculiar one — 
certainly not peculiar to our castle, though unique in 
some of its details; a similar legend belongs to several 
houses in Scotland, and is to be found, I fancy, in other 
countries as well. There is one not far from here, around 
whose dark basements — or hoary battlements — who shall 
say which? — floats a similar tale. It is of a hidden room, 
whose position or entrance nobody knows. Whether it 
belongs to our castle by right I cannot tell.” 

“A species of report,” said Donal, “very likely to arise 
by a kind of cryptogamic generation! The common 
people, accustomed to the narrowest dwellings, gazing 
on the huge proportions of the place, and upon occasion 
admitted, and walking through a succession of rooms- and 
passages, to them as intricate and confused as a rabbit- 
warren, must be very ready, I should think, to imagine 
the existence, within such a pile, of places unknown even 
to the inhabitants of it themselves! But I beg your par- 
don: do tell us the story.” 

“Mr. Grant,” said Kate, “you perplex me! I begin 
to doubt if you have any principles. One moment you 
take one side and the next the other!” 


DONAL GRANT. 


117 


“No, no; but I love my own side too well to let any 
traitors into its ranks: I would have nothing to do with 
lies.” 

“They are all lies together!” 

“Then I want to hear this one,” said Donal. 

“I dare say yon have heard it before!” remarked Mr. 
Graeme, and began: 

“It was in the earldom of a certain recklessly wicked 
wretch, who not only robbed his noor neighbors and even 
killed them when they opposed him, but went so far as to 
behave as wickedly on the Sabbath as on any other day of 
the week. Late one Saturday night, a company was 
seated in the castle, playing cards and drinking; and all 
the time Sunday was drawing nearer and nearer, and no- 
body heeding. At length one of them, seeing the hands 
of the clock at a quarter to twelve, made the remark that 
it was time to stop. He did not mention the sacred day, 
but all knew what he meant. The earl laughed, and said, 
if he was afraid of the kirk-session, he might go, and 
another would take his hand. But the man sat still, and 
said no more till the clock gave the warning. Then he 
spoke again, and said the day was almost out, and they 
ought not to go on playing into the Sabbath. And as he 
uttered the word, his mouth was pulled all on one side. 
But the earl struck his fist on the table, and swore a great 
oath that if any man rose he would run him through. 
‘What care I for the Sabbath!’ he said. ‘I gave you your 
chance to go,’ he added, turning to the man who had 
spoken, who was dressed in black like a minister, ‘and 
you would not take it; now you shall sit where you are.’ 
He glared fiercely at him, and the man returned him an 
equally fiery stare. And now first they began to discover 
what, through the fumes of the whisky and the smoke of 
the pine-torches, they had not observed, namely, that 
none of them knew the man or had ever seen him before. 
They looked at him, and could not turn their eyes from 
him, and a cold terror began to creep through their 
vitals. He kept his fierce scornful look fixed on the earl 
for a moment, and then spoke. ‘And I gave you your 
chance,’ he said, 'and you would not take it: now you 
shall sit still where you are, ‘and no Sabbath shall you 
ever see.’ The clock began to strike, and the man’s 
mouth came straight again. But when the hammer had 


118 


DONAL GRANT . 


struck eleven times, it struck no more, and the clock 
stopped. ‘This day twelvemonth/ said the man, ‘you 
shall see me again; and so every year till your time is up. 
I hope you will enjoy your game!’ The earl would have 
sprung to his feet, but could not stir, and the man was 
nowhere to be seen. He was gone, taking with him both 
door and windows of the room — not as Samson carried off 
the gates of Gaza, however, for he left not the least sign 
of where they had been. From that day to this no one 
has been able to find the room. There the wicked earl 
and his companions still sit, playing with the same pack 
of cards, and waiting their doom. It has been said that, 
on that same day of the year — only, unfortunately, testi- 
mony differs as to the day — shouts of drunken laughter 
may be heard issuing from somewhere in the castle; but 
as to the direction whence they come, none can ever agree. 
That is the story.” 

“A very good one!” said Donal. “I wonder what the 
ground of it is! It must have had its beginning!” 

“Then you don’t believe it?” said Miss Graeme. 

“Not quite,” he replied. “But I have myself had a 
strange experience up there.” 

“What! you have seen something?” cried Miss Graeme, 
her eyes growing bigger. 

“No; I have seen nothing,” answered Donal, “only 
heard something. One night, the first I was there in- 
deed, 1 heard the sound of a far-off musical instrument, 
faint and sweet.” 

The brother and sister exchanged looks. Donal went 
on. 

“I got up and felt my way down the winding stair — I 
sleep at the top of Baliol’s Tower — but at the bottom lost 
myself, and had to sit down and wait for the light. Then 
I heard it again, but seemed no nearer to it than before. 
1 have never heard it since, and have never mentioned the 
thing. I presume, however, that speaking of it to you 
can do no harm. You at least will not raise any fresh 
rumors to injure the respectability of the castle! Do you 
think there is any instrument in it from which such a 
sound might have proceeded? Lady Arctura is a musician, 
I am told, but surely was not likely to be at her piano ‘in 
the dead waste and middle of the night!’ ” 

“It is impossible to say how far a sound may travel iu 


DONAL GRANT. 


119 


the stillness of the night, when there are no other sound 
waves to cross and break it.” 

“That is all very well, Hector,” said his sister; “but 
you know Mr. Grant is neither the first nor the second 
that has heard that sound!” 

“One thing is pretty clear,” said her brother, “it can 
have nothing to do with the revelers at their cards. The 
sound reported is very different from any attributed to 
them.” 

“Are you sure,” suggested Donal, “that there was not 
a violin shut up with them? Even if none of them could 
play, there has been time enough to learn. The sound I 
heard might have been that of a ghostly violin. Though 
like that of a stringed instrument, it was different from 
anything I had ever heard before — except perhaps certain 
equally inexplicable sounds occasionally heard among the 
hills.” 

They went on talking about the thing for awhile, pac- 
ing up and down the garden, the sun hot above their 
heads, the grass cool under their feet. 

“It is enough,” said Miss Graeme, with a rather forced 
laugh, “to make one glad the castle does not go with the 
title.” 

“Why so? asked Donal.” 

“Because,” she answered, “were anything to happen to 
the boys up there, Hector would come in for the title.” 

“I’m not of my sister’s mind!” said Mr. Graeme, 
laughing more genuinely. “A title with nothing to keep 
it up is a simple misfortune. I certainly should not take 
out the patent. No wise man would lay claim to a title 
without the means to make it respected.” 

“Have we come to that!” exclaimed Donal. “Must 
even the old titles of the country be buttressed into re- 
spectability with money? Away in quiet places, reading 
holy history books, we peasants are accustomed to think 
differently. If some millionaire money-lender were to 
buy the old keep of Arundel Castle, you would respect 
him just as much as the present earl!” 

“I would not,” said Mr. Graeme. “I confess you have 
the better of me. But is there not a fallacy in your argu- 
ment?” he added thinkingly. 

“I believe not. If the title is worth nothing without 
the money, the money must be more than the title! If I 


120 


DONAL GRANT. 


were Lazarus,” Donal went on, “and the inheritor of a 
title, I would use it, if only for a lesson to Dives upstairs. 
I scorn to think that honor should wait on the heels of 
wealth. You may think it is because I am and always 
shall be a poor man; but if I know myself it is not there- 
fore. At the same time a title is but a trifle; and if you 
had given any other reason for not using it than homage 
to Mammon, I should have said nothing.” 

“For mv part,” said Miss Graeme, “I have no quarrel 
with riches except that they do not come my way. I 
should know how to use and not abuse them!” 

Donal made no other reply than to turn a look of 
divinely stupid surprise and pity upon the young woman. 
It was of no use to say anything! Were argument abso- 
lutely triumphant, Mammon would sit just where he was 
before! He had marked the great indifference of the 
Lord to the convincing of the understanding: when men 
knew the thing itself, then and not before would they un- 
derstand its relations and reasons! 

If truth belongs to the human soul, then the soul is 
able to see it and know it: if it do the truth, it takes 
therein the first possible, and almost the last necessary, 
step toward understanding it. 

Miss Graeme caught his look, and must have perceived 
its expression, for her face flushed a more than rosy red, 
and the conversation grew crumbly. 

It was a half-holiday, and he stayed to tea, and after it 
went over the farm-buildings with Mr. Graeme, revealing 
such a practical knowledge of all that was going on that 
his entainer soon saw his opinion must be worth some- 
thing whether his fancies were or not. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

STEPHEN KENNEDY. 

The great comforts of DonaPs life, next to those of the 
world in which his soul lived — the eternal world, whose 
doors are ever open to him who prays — were the society 
of his favorite books, the fashioning of his thoughts into 
sweetly ordered sounds in the lofty solitude of his cham- 
ber, and not infrequent communion with the cobbler and 


DONAL QUANT. 


m 


his wife. To these he had as yet said nothing of what 
went on at the castle: he had learned the lesson the cob- 
bler himself gave him. But many a lesson of greater 
value did he learn from the philosopher of the lapstone. 
He who understands because he endeavors is a freed man 
of the realm of human effort. He who has no experience 
of his own, to him the experience of others is a sealed 
book. The convictions that in Donal rose vaporous were 
rapidly condensed and shaped when he found his new 
friend thought likewise. 

By degrees he made more and more of a companion of 
Davie, and such was the sweet relation between them that 
he would sometimes have him in his room even when he 
was writing. When it was time to lay in his winter fuel, 
he said to him : 

“Up here, Davie, we must have a good fire when the 
nights are long; the darkness will be like solid cold. 
Simmons tells me I may have as much coal and wood as I 
like: will you help me to get them up?” 

Davie sprang to his feet; he was ready that very minute. 

“I shall never learn my lessons if I am cold,” added 
Donal, who could not bear a low temperature so well as 
when he was always in the open air. 

“Do you learn lessons, Mr. Grant?” 

“Yes, indeed I do,” replied Donal. “One great help 
to the understanding of things is to brood over them as a 
hen broods over her eggs: words are thought eggs, and 
their chickens are truths; and in order to brood I some- 
times learn by heart. I have set myself to learn, before 
the winter is over if I can, the gospel of John in the 
Greek.” 

“What a big lesson!” exclaimed Davie. 

“Ah, but how rich it will make me!” said Donal, and 
that set Davie pondering. 

They began to carry up the fuel, Donal taking the 
coals, and Davie the wood. But Donal got weary of the 
time it took, and set himself to find a quicker way. So 
next Saturday afternoon, the rudimentary remnant of the 
Jewish Sabbath, and the schoolboy’s weekly carnival be- 
fore Lent, he directed his walk to a certain fishing village, 
the nearest on the coast, about three miles off, and there 
succeeded in hiring a spare boatspar with a block and 
tackle. The spar he ran out, through a notch of the 


DONAL GRANT. 


m 

battlement, near the sheds, and having stayed it well back 
rove the rope through the block at the peak of it, and 
lowered it with a hook at the end. A moment of Davie’s 
help below, and a bucket filled with coals was on its way 
up: this part of the roof was over a yard belonging to the 
household offices, and Davie filled the bucket from a heap 
they had there made. “Stand back, Davie,” Donal 
would cry, and up would go the bucket, to the ever re- 
newed delight of the boy. When it reached the block, 
Donal, by means of a guy, swung the spar on its butt-end, 
and the bucket came to the roof through the next notch 
of the battlement. There he would empty it, and in a 
moment it would be down again to be refilled. When he 
thought he had enough of coal, he turned to the wood ; 
and thus they spent an hour of a good many of the cool 
evenings of autumn. Davie enjoyed it immensely; and 
it was no small thing for a boy delicately nurtured to be 
helped out of the feeling that he must have everything 
done for him. When after a time he saw the heap on the 
roof, he was greatly impressed with the amount that could 
be done by little and little. In return Donal told him that 
if he worked well through the week, he should every 
Saturday evening spend an hour with him by the fire he 
had thus helped to provide, and they would then do some- 
thing together. 

After his first visit Donal went again and again to the 
village: he had made acquaintance with some of the 
people, and liked them. There was one man, however, 
who, although attracted by his look despite its apparent 
sullenness, he had tried to draw him into conversation, 
seemed to avoid, almost to resent his advances. But one 
day as he was walking home, Stephen Kennedy overtook 
him, and saying he was going in his direction, walked 
alongside of him — to the pleasure of Donal, who loved 
all humanity, and especially the portion of it acquainted 
with hard work. He was a middle-sized young fellow, 
with a slouching walk, but a well shaped and well set 
head, and a not uncorhely countenance. He was brown 
as sun and salt seawinds could make him, and had very 
blue eyes and dark hair, telling of Norwegian ancestry. 
He lounged along with his hands in his pockets, as if he 
did not care to walk, yet got over the ground as fast as 
Donal, who, with yet some remnant of the peasant’s 


DONAL GRANT. 


123 


stride, covered the road as if he meant walking. After 
their greeting a great and enduring silence fell, which 
lasted till the journey was half-way over; then all at once 
the fisherman spoke. 

“There’s a lass at the castel, sir,” he said, “they ca’ 
Eppy Comin.” 

“There is,” answered Donal. 

“Do ye ken the lass, sir — to speak til her, I mean?” 

“Surely,” replied Donal. “I know her grandfather 
and grandmother well.” 

“Dacent fowk?” said Stephen. 

“They are that!” responded Donal, “as good people as 
I know!” 

-*“Wud ye du them a guid turn?” asked the fisherman. 

“Indeed I would !” 

“Weel, it’s this, sir: I hae grit doobt gien a’ be gaein’ 
verra weel wi’ the lass at the castel.” 

As he said the words he turned his head aside and 
spoke so low and in such a muffled way that Donal could 
but just make out what he said. 

“You must be plainer if you would have me do any- 
thing,” he returned. 

“I’ll be richt plain wi’ ye, sir,” answered Stephen, and 
then fell silent as if he would never speak again. 

Donal waited, nor uttered a sound. At last he spoke 
once more. 

“Ye maun ken, sir,” he said, “I hae had a fancy to the 
lass this mony a day; for ye’ll alloo she’s baith bonny an’ 
winsome!” 

Donal did not reply, for although he was ready to grant 
her bonny, he had never felt her winsome. 

“Weel,” he went on, “her an’ me’s been coortin’ this 
twa year; an’ guid freen’s we aye was till this last spring, 
whan a’ at ance she turnt highty-tighty like, nor, du what 
I micht, could I get her to say what it was ’at cheengt 
her; sae far as I kenned I had dune naething, nor wad 
she say I had gi’en her ony cause o’ complaint. But 
though she couldna say I had ever gi’en mair nor a seevil 
word to ony lass but hersel’, she appeart unco wullin’ to 
fix me wi’ this ane an’ that ane or ony ane! I couldna 
think what had come owerher! But at last — an’ a sair 
last it is! — I hae come to the un’erstan’in’ o’ ’t: she wad 
fain hae a pretense for br’akin’ wi’ me! She wad hae ’t 


124 


DONAL GRANT. 


’at I was duin’ as she was duin’ hersel’ — handin’ company 
wi’ anither!” 

“Are yon quite sure of what you say?” asked Donal. 

“Ower sure, sir, though I’m not at leeberty to tell ye 
hoo I cam to be. Dinna think, sir, ’at I’m ane to baud a 
lass to her word whan her hert disna back it. I wud hae 
said naething aboot it, but jist born the hert-brake wi’ the 
becomin’ silence, for greitin’ nor ragin’ men’ no nets, nor 
tak the life o’ nae dogfish. But it’s God’s trowth, sir, 
I’m terrible feart for the lassie hersel’. She’s that ta’en 
up wi’ him, they tell me, ’at she can think o’ naething 
but him; an' he’s a yoong lord, no a puir lad like me — an’ 
that’s what fears me!” 

A great dread and a great compassion together laid hold 
of Donal, but he did not speak. 

“Gien it cam to that,” resumed Stephen, “I doobt the 
fisherlad wud win her better breid nor my lord ; for gien 
a’ tales be true, he wud hae to work for his ain breid; the 
castel’s no his, nor canna he ’cep be merry the leddy o’ ’t. 
But it’s no meryin’ Eppy he’ll be efter, or ony the likes 
o’ ’im !” 

“You don’t surely hint,” said Donal, “that there’s any- 
thing between her and Lord Forgue? She must be an 
idle girl to take such a thing into her head!” 

“I wuss weel she hae ta’en ’t intil her heid! she’ll get 
it the easier oot o’ her hert! But ’deed, sir, I’m sair 
feart! I speakna o’ ’t for my ain sake; for gien there be 
trowth intil’t, there can never be mair ’atween her and 
me! But, eh, sir, the peety o’ ’t wi’ sic a bonny lass! — 
for he canna mean fair by her! Thae gran’ fowk does 
fearsome things! It’s sma’ won’er ’at whiles the puir 
fowk rises wi’ a roar, an’ tears doon a’, as they did i’ 
France!” 

“All you say is quite true; but the charge is such a 
serious one!” 

“It is that, sir! But though it be true, I’m no gaein’ 
to mak it afore the warl.” 

“You are right thele: it could do no good.” 

“I fear it may do as little whaur I am gaein’ to mak it! 
I’m upo’ my ro’d to gar my lord gie an accoont o’ himsel’. 
Faith, gien it be na a guid ane, I’ll thraw the neck o’ ’im ! 
It’s better me to hang, nor her to gang disgraced, puir 
thing! She can be naething mair to me, as I say; but I 


DONAL GRANT. 


125 


wnd like weel the wringin’ o’ a lord’s neck! It wud be 
like killin’ a shark !” 

“Why do you tell me this?” asked Donal. 

“ ’Cause I look to you to get me to word o’ the man.” 

“That you may wring his neck? You should not have 
told me that: I should be art and part in his murder!” 

“Wud ye hae me lat the lassie tak her chance ohn dune 
onything?” said the fisherman with scorn. 

“By no means. I would do something myself whoever 
the girl was — and she is the granddaughter of my best 
friends.” 

“Sir, ye winna surely fail me!” 

“I will help you somehow, but I will not do what you 
want me. I will curn the thing over in my mind. I 
promise you I will do something — what, I cannot say off- 
hand. You had better go home again, and I will come to 
you to-morrow.” 

“Na, na, that winna do!” said the man half-doggedly, 
half-fiercely. “The hert ’ill be oot o’ my body gien I 
dinna do something! This verra niche it maun be dune! 
I canna bide in hell ony langer. The thoucht o’ the ras- 
cal slaverin’ his lees ower my Eppy’s killin’ me! My 
brain’s like a fire: I see the verra billows o’ the ocean as 
reid’s blude.” 

“If you come near the castle to-night, I will have you 
taken up. I am too much your friend to see you hanged! 
But if you go home and leave the matter to me, I will do 
my best, and let you know. She shall be saved if I can 
compass it. What, man! you would not have God against 
you?” 

“He’ll be upo’ the side o’ the richt, I’m thinkin’!” 

“Doubtless, but he has said, ‘Vengeance is mine!’ He 
can’t trust us with that. He won’t have us interfering. 
It’s more his concern than yours yet that the lassie have 
fair play* I will do my part.” 

They" walked on in gloomy silence for some time. Sud- 
denly the fisherman put out his hand, seized Donahs with 
a convulsive grasp, was possibly reassured by the strength 
with which Donal’s responded, turned, and without a 
word went back. 

Donal had to think. Here was a most untoward affair! 
What could he do? What ought he to attempt? From 
what he had seen of the young lord, he could not believe 


DONAL GRANT. 


1 36 

he intended wrong to the girl; but he might be selfishly 
amusing himself, and was hardly one to reflect that the 
least idle familiarity with her was a wrong! The thing, if 
there was the least truth in it, must be put a stop to at 
once, but it might be all a fancy of the justly jealous 
lover, to whom the girl had not of late been behaving as 
she ought! Or might there not be somebody else? At 
the same time there was nothing absurd in the idea that 
a youth, fresh from college and suddenly discompanioned 
at home, without society, possessed by no love of litera- 
ture, and with almost no amusements, should, if only for 
very ennui , be attracted by the pretty face and figure of 
Eppy, and then inthralled by her coquetries of instinctive 
response. There was danger to the girl both in silence 
and in speech; if there was no ground for the apprehen- 
sion, the very supposition was an injury — might even sug- 
gest the thing it was intended to frustrate! Still some- 
thing must be risked! He had just been reading in Sir 
Philip Sidney that ‘‘whosoever in great things will think 
to prevent all objections, must lie still and do nothing. ” 
But what was he to do? The readiest and simplest thing 
was to go to the youth, tell him what he had heard, and 
ask him if there was any ground for it. But they must 
find the girl another situation! in either case distance 
must be put between them! He would tell her grand- 
parents; but he feared, if there was any truth in it, they 
would have no great influence with her. If, on the other 
hand, the thing was groundless, they might make it up 
between her and her fisherman, and have them married ! 
She might only have been teasing him! He would cer- 
tainly speak to the young lord! Yet again, what if he 
should actually put the mischief into his thoughts! If 
there should be ever so slight a leaning in the direction, 
might he not so give a sudden and fatal impulse? He 
would take the housekeeper into his counsel! She must 
understand the girl! Things would at once show them- 
selves to her on the one side or the other, which might 
reveal the path he ought to take. But did he know Mis- 
tress Brookes well enough? Would she be prudent, or 
spoil everything by precipitation? She might ruin the 
girl if she acted without sympathy, caring only to get the 
appearance of evil out of the house! 

The way the legally righteous act the policeman in the 


DONAL GRANT. 


127 


moral world would be amusing were it not so sad. They 
are always making the evil “move on,” driving it to do 
its mischief to other people instead of them ; dispersing 
nests of the degraded to crowd them the more, and with 
worse results, in other parts: why should such be shocked 
at the idea of sending out of the world those to whom 
they will not give a place in it to lay their heads? They 
treat them in this world as, according to the old theology, 
their God treats them in the next, keeping them alive for 
sin and suffering. 

Some with the bright lamp of their intellect, others 
with the smoky lamp of their life, cast a shadow of God 
on the wall of the universe, and then believe or disbelieve 
in the shadow. 

Donal was still in meditation when he reached home, 
and still undecided what he should do. Crossing a small 
court on his way to his aerie, he saw the housekeeper 
making signs to him frjm the window of her room. He 
turned and went to her. It was of Eppy she wanted to 
speak to him! How often is the discovery of a planet, of 
a truth, of a scientific fact, made at once in different 
places far apart! She asked him to sit down, and got 
him a glass of milk, which was his favorite refreshment, 
little imagining the expression she attributed to fatigue 
arose from the very thing occupying her own thoughts. 

“It’s a queer thing,” she began, “for an auld wife like 
me to come til a yoong gentleman like yersel’, «ir, wi’ sic 
a tale; but, as the sayin’ is, ‘Needs maun whan the deil 
drives;’ an’ here’s like to be an unco stramash aboot the 
place, gien we come na thegither upo’ some gait oot o’ ’t. 
Dinna luik sae scaret like, sir; we may be in time yet er’ 
the warst come to the warst, though it’s some ill to say 
what may be the warst in sic an ill-coopered kin’ o’ affair! 
There’s thae twa fules o’ bairns — troth, they’re nae better! 
an’ the tane’s jist as muckle to blame as the tither — only 
the lass is waur to blame nor the lad, bein’ made sharper, 
an’ kennin’ better nor him what comes o’ sic! Eh, but 
she is a gowk!” 

Here Mrs. Brookes paused, lost in contemplation of the 
gowkedness of Eppy. 

She was a florid, plump, good-looking woman, over 
forty, with thick auburn hair, brushed smooth — one of 
those women comely in soul as well as body, who are 


128 


DONAL GRANT. 


always to the discomfiture of wrong and the healing of 
strife. Left a young widow, she had refused many offers: 
once was all that was required of her in the way of mar- 
riage! She had found her husband good enough not to 
be followed by another, and marriage hard enough to 
favor the same result. When she sat down, smoothing 
her apron on her lap, and looking him in the face with 
clear blue eyes, he must have been either a suspicious or 
an unfortunate man who would not trust her. She was a 
general softener of shocks, foiler of encounters, and 
soother of angers. She was not one of those house- 
keepers always in black silk and lace, but was mostly to 
be seen in a cotton gown — very clean, but by no means 
imposing. She would put her hands to anything — show a 
young servant how a thing ought to be done, or relieve 
cook or housemaid who was ill or bad a holiday. Donal 
had “taken to” her, as like does to like. 

He did not hurry her, but waited. 

“I may as weel gie ye the haill story, sir!” she recom- 
menced. “Syne ye’ll be whaur I am mysel’. 

“I was oot i’ the yard to luik efter my hens — I never 
lat onybody but mysel’ meddle wi’ them, for they’re jist 
as easy sp’ilt as ither fowk’s bairns; an’ the twa doors o’ 
the barn stan’in’ open, I took the straucht ro’d throuw 
the same to win the easier at my feathert fowk, as my 
auld minnie used to ca’ them. I’m but a saft kin’ o’ a 
bein’, as my faither used to tell me, an’ mak but little 
din whaur I gang, sae they couldna hae h’ard my fut as I 
gaed; but what sud I hear — but I maun tall ye it was i’ 
the gloamin’ last nicht, an’ I wad hae tellt ye the same 
this mornin’, sir, seekin’ yer fair coonsel, but ye was awa’ 
afore I kenned, an’ I was resol vt no to lat anither gloam- 
in’ come ohn ta’en precautions — what sud I hear, I say, 
as I was sayin’, but a laich tshe — tshe — tshe, somewhaur, 
I couldna tell whaur, as gien some had mair to say nor 
wud be spoken oot! Weel, ye see, bein’ ane accoontable 
tae ithers for them ’at’s accoontable to me, I stude still 
an’ hearkent: gien a’ was richt, nane wad be the waur 
for me; an’ gien a’ wasna richt, a’ sud be wrang gien I 
could make it sae! Weel, as I say, I hearkent— but eh, 
sir! jist gie a keek oot at that door, an’ see gien there be 
no somebody there hearkin’, for that Eppy — I wudna 
lippen til her ae hair! she’s as sly as an edder! Naebody 


DONAL GRANT. 


129 


there? Weel, steek ye the door, sir, an’ I s’ gang on wi’ 
my tale. I stude an’ hearkent, as I was sayin’, an’ what 
sud I hear but a twasome toot-moot, as my auld auntie 
frae Ebberdeen wud hae oa’d it— ae v’ice that o’ a man, 
an’ the ither that o’ a wuman, for it’s strange the differ 
even whan baith speyks their laichest! I was aye gleg i’ 
the hearin’, an’ hae reason for the same to be thankfu’, 
but I couldna for a’ my sharpness mak oot what they war 
sayin’. So, whan I saw ’at I wasna to hear, I jist set 
aboot seein’, an’ as quaietly as my saft fit — it's safter nor 
it’s licht — wud carry me, I gaed aboot the barn Sure, link- 
in’ whaur onybody could be hidden awa’. 

“There was a great heap o’ strae in ae corner, no hard 
again’ thewa’; an’ atween the wa’ an’ that heap o’ 
thrashen strae sat the twa. Up gat my lord wi’ a spang, 
as gien he had been ta’en stealin’. Eppy wud hae hidden, 
an’ creepit oot like a moose ahint my back, but I was ower 
sharp for her. ‘Come oot o’ that, my lass,’ says I. ‘Oh, 
Mistress Brookes!’ says my lord, unco ceevil, ‘for my sake 
don’t be hard upon her.’ Noo that angert me! For 
though I say the lass is mair to blame nor the lad, it’s no 
for the lad, be he lord or laborer, to lea’ himsel’ oot when 
the blame comes. An’ says I, ‘My lord,’ says I, ‘ye oucht 
to ken better! I s’ say nae mair i’ the noo, for I’m ower 
angry. Gang yer ways — but na! no thegither, my lord! 
I s’ luik weel to that! Gang up til yer ain room, Eppy!’ 
I said, ‘an’ gien I dinna see ye there whan I come in, it’s 
awa’ to your grannie I gang this verra nicht!’ 

“Eppy she gaed; an’ my lord he stude there, wi’ a face 
’at glowert white throuw the gloamin’. I turned upon 
him like a wild beast, an’ says I, ‘I winna speir what ye’re 
up til, my lord, but ye ken weel eneuch what it luiks 
like! an’ I wud never hae expeckit it o’ ye!’ He began 
an’ he stammert, an’ he beggit me to believe there was 
naething atween them, an’ he wudna harm the lassie to 
save his life, an’ a’ the lave o’ ’t. I couldna i’ my heart 
but pity them baith — twa sic bairns, doobtless drawn 
thegither wi’ nae thoucht o’ ill, ilk ane by the bonny face 
o’ the ither, as is but nait’ral, though it canna be allooed ! 
He beseekit me sae sair ’at I foolishly promised no to tell 
his father gien he on his side wud promise no to hae mair 
to du wi’ Eppy. An’ that he did. Noo I never had 
reason to doobt my yoong lord’s word, but in a case o’ 


130 


DONAL GRANT. 


this kin’ it’s aye better no to lippen. Ony gait, the thing 
canna be left this wise, for gien ill cam o’ ’t, whaur wud 
we a’ be! I dinna promise no to tell onybody; I’m free 
to tell yersel’, Maister Grant; an’ ye maun contrive what’s 
to be dune.” 

“I will speak to him,” said Donal, “and see what 
humor he is in. That will help to clear the thing up. 
We will try to do right, and trust to be kept from doing 
wrong.” 

Donal left her to go to his room, but had not reached 
the top of the stair when he saw clearly that he must 
speak to Lord Forgue at once; he turned and went down 
to a room that was called his. 

When he reached it, only Davie was there, turning over 
the leaves of a folio worn by fingers that had been dust 
for centuries. He said Percy went out, and would not 
let him go with him. 

Knowing Mistress Brookes was looking after Eppy, 
Donal put off seeking further for Forgue till the morrow. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

EVASION. 

The next day he could find him nowhere, and in the 
evening went to see the Comins. It was pretty dark, but 
the moon would be up by and by. 

When he reached the cobbler’s house, he found him 
working as usual, only indoors now that the weather was 
colder, and the light sooner gone. He looked innocent, 
bright, and contented as usual. “If God be at peace,” 
he would say to himself, “why should not I?” Once he 
said this aloud, almost unconsciously, and was overheard: 
it strengthened the regard with which worldly church- 
goers regarded him: he was to them an irreverent, yea, 
blasphemous man ! They did not know God enough to 
understand the cobbler’s words, and all the interpretation 
they could give them was after their kind. Their long 
Sunday faces indicated their reward; the cobbler’s cheery, 
expectant look indicated his. 

The two were just wondering a little when he entered 
that young Eppy had not made her appearance; but then, 


DONAL QUANT. 


131 


as her grandmother said, she had often, especially during 
the last few weeks, been later still! As she spoke, how- 
ever, they heard her light, hurried foot on the stair. 

“Here she comes at last!” said her grandmother, and 
she entered. 

She said she could not get away so easily now. Donal 
feared she had begun to lie. After sitting a quarter of 
an hour, she rose suddenly and said she must go, for she 
was wanted at home. Donal rose also and said, as the 
night was dark and the moon not yet up, it would be 
better to go together. Her face flushed: she had to go 
into the town first, she said, to get something she wanted! 
Donal replied that he was in no hurry and would go with 
her. She cast an inquiring, almost suspicious look on 
her grandparents, but made no further objection, and 
they went out together. 

They walked to the High Street, and to the shop where 
Donal had encountered the parson. He waited in the 
street till she came out. They walked back the way they 
had come, little thinking, either of them, that their every 
step was dogged. Kennedy, the fisherman, firm in his 
promise not to go near the castle, could not therefore re- 
main quietly at home: he knew it was Eppy’s day for 
visiting her folk, went to the town, and had been linger- 
ing about in the hope of seeing her. Not naturally sus- 
picious, justifiable jealousy had rendered him such; and 
when he saw the two together he began to ask whether 
Donal’s anxiety to keep him from encountering Lord 
Forgue might not be due to other grounds than those 
given or implied. So he followed, careful they should 
not see him. 

They came to a baker’s shop, and, stopping at the door, 
Eppy, in a voice that in vain sought to be steady, asked 
Donal if he would be so good as wait for her a moment, 
while she went in to speak to the baker’s daughter. 
Donal made no difficulty, and she entered, leaving the 
door open as she found it. 

Lowrie Leper’s shop was lighted with only one dip, 
too dim almost to show the sugar biscuits and peppermint 
drops in the window, that drew all day the hungry eyes 
of the children. A pleasant smell of bread came from it, 
and did what it could to entertain him in the all but de- 
serted street. While he stood no one entered or issued. 


132 


DONAL GRANT. 


“She’s having a long talk!” he said to himself, but for 
a long time was not impatient. He began at length, how- 
ever, to fear she must have been taken ill, or have found 
something wrong in the house. When more than half an 
hour was gone, he thought it time to make inquiry. 

He entered, therefore, shutting the door and opening it 
again, to ring the spring-bell, then mechanically closing it 
behind him. Straightway Mrs. Leper appeared from 
somewhere to answer the squall of the shrill-tongued sum- 
moner. Donal asked if Eppy was ready to go. The 
woman stared at him a moment in silence. 

“Eppy wha, said ye?” she asked at length. 

“Eppy Comin,” he answered. 

“I ken naething aboot her. Lucy!” 

A good-looking girl, with a stocking she was darning 
drawn over one hand and arm, followed her mother into 
the shop. 

“Whaur’s Eppy Oomin, gien ye please?” asked Donal. 

“I ken naething aboot her. I haena seen her sin’ this 
day week,” answered the girl in a very straightforward 
manner. 

Donal saw he had been tricked, but judging it better to 
seek no elucidation, turned with apology to go. 

As he opened the door, there came through the house 
from behind a blast of cold wind: there was an open outer 
door in that direction! The girl must have slipped 
through the house and out by that door, leaving her 
squire to cool himself, vainly expectant, in the street! If 
she had found another admirer, as probably she imagined, 
his polite attentions were at the moment inconvenient! 

But she had tried the trick too often, for she had once 
served her fisherman in like fashion. Seeing her go into 
the baker’s, Kennedy had conjectured her purpose, and 
hurrying toward the issue from the other exit, saw her 
come out of the court, and was again following her. 

Donal hastened homeward. The moon rose. It was a 
lovely night. Dull-gleaming glimpses of the river came 
through the light fog that hovered over it in the rising 
moon like a spirit-river continually ascending from the 
earthly one and resting upon it, but flowing in heavenly 
places. The white webs shone very white in the moon, 
and the green grass looked gray. A few minutes more, 
and the whole country was covered with a low-lying fog, 


DONAL GRANT. 


133 


on whose upper surface the moon shone, making it appear 
to Donal’s wondering eyes a widespread inundation, from 
which rose half-submerged houses and stacks and trees. 
One who had never seen the thing before, and who did not 
know the country, would not have doubted he looked on a 
veritable expanse of water. Absorbed in the beauty of 
the sight he trudged on. 

Suddenly he stopped: were those the sounds of a scuffle 
he heard on the road before him? He ran. At the next 
turn, in the loneliest part of the way, he saw something 
dark, like the form of a man, lying in the middle of the 
road. He hastened to it. The moon gleamed on a pool 
beside it. A death-like face looked heavenward: it was 
that of Lord Forgue — without breath or motion. There 
was a cut in his head: from that the pool had flowed. He 
examined it as well as he could with anxious eyes. It 
had almost stopped bleeding. What was he to do? What 
could be done? There was but one thing! He drew the 
helpless form to the side of the way, and leaning it up 
against the earth dike, sat down on the road before it, 
and so managed to get it upon his back, and rise with it. 
If he could but get home unseen, much scandal might be 
forestalled. 

On the level road he did very well, but, strong as he 
was, he did not find it an easy task to climb with such a 
burden the steep approach to the castle. He had little 
breath left when at last he reached the platform from 
which rose the towering bulk. 

He carried him straight to the housekeeper’s room. It 
was not yet more than half-past ten, and though the 
servants were mostly in bed, Mistress Brookes was still 
moving about. He laid his burden on her sofa and has- 
tened to find her. 

Like a sensible woman she kept her horror and dismay 
to herself. She got some brandy, and between them they 
managed to make him swallow a little. He began to re- 
cover. They bathed his wound and did for it what they 
could with scissors and plaster, then carried him to his 
own room and got him to bed. Donal sat down by him, 
and stayed. His patient was restless and wandering all 
the night, but toward morning fell into a sound sleep, and 
was still asleep when the housekeeper came to relieve him. 

As soon as Mrs. Brookes left Donal with Lord Forgue, 


134 


DONAL GRANT. 


she went to Eppy’s room and found her in bed, pretend- 
ing to be asleep. She left her undisturbed, thinking to 
come easier at the truth if she took her unprepared to lie. 
It came out afterward that she was not so heartless as she 
seemed. She found Lord Forgue waiting her upon the 
road, and almost immediately Kennedy came up to them. 
Forgue told her to run home at once; he would soon settle 
matters with the fellow. She went off like a hare, and 
till she was out of sight the men stood looking at each 
other. Kennedy was a powerful man, and Forgue but a 
stripling; the latter trusted, however, to his skill, and 
did not fear his adversary. He did not know what he was. 

He seemed now in no danger, and his attendants agreed 
to be silent till he recovered. It was given out that he 
was keeping his room for a few days, but that nothing 
very serious was the matter with him. 

In the afternoon Donal went to find Kennedy, loitered 
awhile about the village, and made several inquiries after 
him; but no one had seen him. 

Forgue recovered as rapidly as could have been ex- 
pected. Davie was troubled that he might not go and see 
him, but he would have been full of question, remark, 
and speculation! For what he had himself to do in the 
matter, Donal was but waiting till he should be strong 
enough to be taken to task. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

CONFRONTMEKT. 

At length one evening Donal knocked at the door of 
Forgue’s room, and went in. He was seated in an easy- 
chair before a blazing fire, looking comfortable, and show- 
ing in his pale face no sign of a disturbed conscience. 

“My lord,” said Donal, “you will hardly be surprised to 
find I have something to talk to you about !” 

His lordship was so much surprised that he made him 
no answer — only looked in his face. Donal went on: 

“I want to speak to you about Eppy Comin,” he said. 

Forgue’s face fl^yped up. The devil of pride, and the 
devil of fear, and the devil of shame, all rushed to the 


DONAL GRANT. 


135 


outworks to defend the worthless self. But his temper 
did not at once break bounds. 

“Allow me to remind you, Mr. Grant/’ he said, “that 
although 1 have availed myself of your help, I am not 
your pupil, and you have no authority over me.” 

“The reminder is unnecessary, my lord,” answered 
Donal. “I am not your tutor, but I am the friend of the 
(Jomins, and therefore of Eppy.” 

His lordship drew himself up yet more erect in his 
chair, and a sneer came over his handsome countenance. 
But Donal did not wait for him to speak. 

“Don’t imagine me, my lord,” he said, “presuming on 
the fact that I had the good fortune to carry you home: 
that I should have done for the stable-boy in similar 
plight. But as I interfered for you then, I have to inter- 
fere for Eppy now.” 

“Damn your insolence! Do you think because you are 
going to be a parson, you may make a congregation of 
me?” 

“I have not the slightest intention of being a parson,” 
returned Donal quietly, “but I do hope to be an honest 
man, and your lordship is in great danger of ceasing to be 
one!” 

“Get out of my room,” cried Forgue. 

Donal took a seat opposite him. 

“If you do not, I will!” said the young lord, and rose. 

But ere he reached the door, Donal was standing with 
his back against it. He locked it, and took out the key. 
The youth glared at him, unable to speak for fury, then 
turned, caught up a chair, and rushed at him. One twist 
of Donal’s plowman-hand wrenched it from him. He 
threw it over his head upon the bed, and stood motionless 
and silent, waiting till his rage should subside. In a few 
moments his eye began to quail, and he went back to his 
seat. 

“Now, my lord,” said Donal, following his example 
and sitting down, “will you hear me?” 

“I’ll be damned if I do!” he answered, flaring up again 
at the first sound of Donal’s voice. 

“I’m afraid you’ll be damned if you don’t,” returned 
Donal. 

His lordship took the undignified expedient of thrust- 
ing his fingers in his ears. Donal sat quiet until he re- 


136 


DONAL GRANT. 


moved them. But the momen he began to speak he 
thrust them in again. Donal rose, and seizing one of his 
hands by the wrist, said: 

“Be careful, my lord; if you drive me to extremity, I 
will speak so that the house shall hear me; if that will 
not do, I go straight to your father. ” 

“You are a spy and a sneak !” 

“A man who behaves like you should have no terms 
held with him.” 

The youth broke out in a fresh passion. Donal sat 
waiting till the futile outburst should be over. It was 
presently exhausted, the rage seeming to go out for want 
of fuel. Nor did he again stop his ears against the truth 
he saw he was doomed to hear. 

“I am come,” said Donal, “to ask your lordship 
whether the course you are pursuing is not a dishonorable 
one.” 

“I know what I am about.” 

“So much the worse — but I doubt it. For your 
mother’s sake, if for no other, you should scorn to behave 
to a woman as you are doing now.” 

“What do you please to imagine I am doing now?” 

“There is no imagination in this — that you are behav- 
ing to Eppy as no man ought except he meant to marry 
her.” 

“How do you know I do not mean to marry her?” 

“Do you mean to marry her, my lord?” 

“What right have you to ask?” 

“At least I live under the same roof with you both.” 

“What if she knows I do not intend to marry her?” 

“My duty is equally plain: I am the friend of her only 
relatives. If I did not do my best for the poor girl, I 
dared not look my Master in the face! Where is your 
honor, my lord?” 

“I never told her I would marry her.” 

“I never supposed you had.” 

“Well, what then?” 

“I repeat, such attentions as yours must naturally be 
supposed by any innocent girl to mean marriage.” 

“Bah! she is not such a fool!” 

“I fear she is fool enough not to know to what they 
must then point!” 

“They point to nothing.” 


DONAL grant. 


137 

‘‘Then you take advantage of her innocence to amuse 
yourself with her.” 

“What if she be not quite so innocent as you would 
have her?” 

“My lord, you are a scoundrel.” 

For one moment Forgue seemed to wrestle with an all 
but uncontrollable fury; the next he laughed — but it was 
not a nice laugh. 

“Come now,” he said, “I’m glad I’ve put you in a 
rage! I’ve got over mine! I’ll tell you the whole truth: 
there is nothing between me and the girl — nothing what- 
ever, I give you my word, except an innocent flirtation. 
Ask herself.” 

“My lord,” said Donal, “I believe what you mean me 
to understand. I thought nothing worse of it myself.” 

“Then why the devil kick up such an infernal shindy 
about it?” 

“For these reasons, my lord ” 

“Oh, come, don’t be long-winded.” 

“You must hear me.” 

“Go on.” 

“I will suppose she does not imagine you mean to marry 
her.” 

“She can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“She’s not a fool, and she can’t imagine me such an 
idiot.” 

“But may she not suppose you love her?” 

He tried to laugh. 

“You have never told her so— never said or done any- 
thing to make her think so?” 

“Oh, well, she may think so — after a sort of a fashion.” 

“Would she speak to you again if she heard you talking 
so of the love you give her?” 

“You know as well as I do the word has many mean- 
ings.” 

“And which is she likely to take? That which is con- 
fessedly false and worth nothing?” 

“She may take which she pleases, and drop it when she 
pleases.” 

“But now, does she not take your words of love for 
more than they are worth?” 

“She says I will soon forget her.” 


138 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Will any saying keep her from being so in love with 
you as to reap misery? You don’t know what the conse- 
quences may be. Her love, wakened by yours, may be 
infinitely stronger than yours.” 

“Oh, women don’t nowadays die for love!” said his 
lordship, feeling a little flattered. 

“It would be well for some of them if they did! they 
never get over it. She mayn’t die, true! but she may 
live to hate the man that led her to think he loved her, 
and taught her to believe in nobody. Her whole life may 
be darkened because you would amuse yourself.” 

“She has her share of the amusement, and I have my 
share, by Jove, of the danger! She’s a very pretty, 
clever, engaging girl — though she is but a housemaid!” 
said Forgue, as if uttering a sentiment of quite com- 
munistic liberality. 

“What you say shows the more danger to her! If you 
admire her so much you must have behaved to her so 
much the more like a genuine lover! But any suffering 
the affair may have caused you will hardly, I fear, per- 
suade you to the only honorable escape!” 

“By Jupiter!” cried Forgue. “Would you have me 
marry the girl? That’s coming it rather strong with your 
friendship for the cobbler!” 

“No, my lord; if things are as you represent, I have 
no such desire. What I want is to put a stop to the 
whole affair. Every man has to be his brother’s keeper; 
and if our western notions concerning women be true, a 
man is yet more bound to be his sister’s keeper. He who 
does not recognize this, be he earl or prince, is viler than 
the murderous prowler after a battle. For a man to say, 
‘She can take care of herself,’ is to speak out of essential 
hell. The beauty of love is that it does not take care of 
itself, but of the person loved. To approach a girl in any 
other fashion is a mean, scoundrelly thing. I am glad it 
has already brought on you some of the chastisement it 
deserves.” 

His lordship started to his feet in a fresh access of rage. 

“You dare say that to my face!” 

“Assuredly, my lord. The fact stands just so.” 

“I gave the fellow as good as he gave me!” 

“That is nothing to the point — though from the state 
I found you in, it is hard to imagine. Pardon me, I do 
not believe you behaved like what you call a coward.” 


RGNAL GRANT. 


139 


Lord Forgue was almost crying with rage. 

“I have not done with him yet!” he stammered. “If 
I only knew who the rascal is! If I don’t pay him out, 
may ” 

“Stop, stop, my lord. All that is mere waste! I know 
who the man is, but I will not tell you. He gave you no 
more than you deserved, and I wilf do nothing to get him 
punished for it.” 

“You are art and part with him.” 

“I neither knew of his intent, saw him do it, nor have 
any proof against him.” 

k ’You will not tell me his name?” 

“No.” 

“I will find it out, and kill him.” 

“He threatens to kill you. I will do what I can to pre- 
vent either.” 

“I will kill him,” repeated Forgue through his clinched 
teeth. 

“And I will do my best to have you hanged for it,” 
said Donal. 

“Leave the room, you insolent bumpkin.” 

“When you have given me your word that you will 
never again speak to Eppy Comin.” 

“I’ll be damned first.”' 

“She will be sent away.” 

“Where I shall see her the easier.” 

His lordship said this more from perversity than in- 
tent, for he had begun to wish himself clear of the affair 
— only how was he to give in to this unbearable clown? 

“I will give you till to-morrow to think of it,” said 
Donal, and opened the door. 

His lordship made him no reply, but cast after him a 
look of uncertain anger. Donal, turning his head as he 
shut the door, saw it. 

“I trust,” he said, “you will one day be glad I spoke to 
you plainly.” 

“Oh, go along with your preaching!” cried Forgue, 
more testily than wrathfully; and Donal went. 

In the mean time Eppy had been soundly taken to task 
by Mrs. Brookes and told that if once again she spoke 
a word to Lord Forgue, she should that very day have her 
dismissal. The housekeeper thought she had at least 
succeeded in impressing upon her that she was in danger 


140 


DONAL GRANT. 


of losing her situation in a way that must seriously affect 
her character. She assured Donal that she would not let 
the foolish girl out of her sight; and thereupon Donal 
thought it better to give Lord Forgue a day to make up 
his mind. 

On the second morning he came to the schoolroom when 
lessons were over, and said frankly: 

“I’ve made a fool of myself, Mr. Grant! Make what 
excuse for me you can. I am sorry. Believe me, I meant 
no harm. I have made up my mind that all shall be over 
between us.” 

“Promise me you will not once speak to her again.” 

“I don’t like to do that: it might happen to be awk- 
ward. But I promise to do my best to avoid her.” 

Donal was not quite satisfied, but thought it best to 
leave the thing so. The youth seemed entirely in earnest. 

For a time he remained in doubt whether he should 
mention the thing to Eppy’s grandparents. He reflected 
that their influence with her did not seem very great, and 
if she were vexed by anything they said, it might destroy 
what little they had. Then it would make them unhappy, 
and he could not bear to think of it. He made up his 
mind that he would not mention it, but, in the hope she 
would now change her way, leave the past to be forgotten. 
He had no sooner thus resolved, however, than he grew 
uncomfortable, and was unsatisfied with the decision. All 
would not be right between his friend and him! Andrew 
Oomin would have something against him! He could no 
longer meet him as before, for he would be hiding some- 
thing from him, and he would have a right to reproach 
him! Then his inward eyes grew clear. He said to him- 
self, “What a man has a right to know, another has no 
right to conceal from him. If sorrow belong to him, I 
have as little right to keep that from him as joy. His 
sorrows and his joys are part of a man’s inheritance. My 
wisdom to take care of this man ! — his own is immeasura- 
bly before mine! The whole matter concerns him: I will 
let him know at once!” 

The same night he went to see him. His wife was out, 
and Donal was glad of it. He told him all that had taken 
place. 

He listened in silence, his eyes fixed on him, his work 
on his lap, his hand with the awl hanging by his side. 


BONAL GRANT. 


141 


When he heard how Eppy had tricked Donal that night, 
leaving him to watch in vain, tears gathered in his old 
eyes. He wiped them away with the backs of his horny 
hands, and there came no more. Donal told him he had 
first thought he would say nothing to him about it all, he 
was so loath to trouble them, but neither his heart nor his 
conscience would let him be silent. 

“Ye did richt to tell me,” said Andrew, after a pause. 
“It’s true we haena that muckle weicht wi’ her, for it 
seems a law o’ natur ’at the young’s no to be hauden 
doon by the experrience o’ the auld — which can be ex- 
pedience only to themsel’s; but whan we pray to God it 
puts it mair in his pooer to mak use o’ ’s for the carryin’ 
oot o’ the thing we pray for. It’s no aye by words he 
gies us to say; wi’ some fowk words gang for unco little; 
it may be whiles by a luik o’ whilk ye ken naething, or it 
may be by a motion o’ yer ban’, or a turn o’ yer heid. 
Wha kens but ye may haud a divine pooer ower the hert 
ye hae ’maist gi’en up the houp o’ ever winnin’ at! Ye 
hae h’ard o’ the convic’ broucht to sorrow by seein’ a bit 
o’ the same mattin’ he had been used to see i' the aisle o’ 
the kirk his mither tuik him til! That was a stroke o’ 
God’s magic! There’s nae kennin’ what God can do, nor 
yet what best o’ rizzons he has for no doin’ ’t sooner! 
Whan we think he’s lattin’ the time gang, an’ doin’ 
naething, he may be jist doin’ a’thing! No ’at I ever 
think like that noo; lat him do ’at he likes, what he does 
I’m sure o’. I’m o’ his min’ whether I ken his min’ 
or no. Eh, my lassie! my lassie! I could better win 
ower a hantle nor her giein’ you the slip that gait, sir. 
It was sae dooble o’ her! It’s naething wrang in itsel ’ 
’at a yoong lass sud be ta’en wi’ the attentions o’ a bonny 
lad like Lord Eorgue! That’s no agen the natur ’at God 
made! But to preten’ an’ tak in! — to be cunnin’ an’ sly! 
that’s evil. An’ syne for the ither lad — eh, I doobt that’s 
warst o’ a’! Only I kenna hoo far she had committit her- 
sel’ wi’ him, for she was never open-hertit. Eh, sir! it’s 
a fine thing to hae nae secrets but sic as lie atween yersel’ 
an’ yer Macker! I can but pray the Father o’ a’ to haud 
his e’e upon her, an’ his airms aboot her, an’ keep aif the 
hardenin’ o’ the hert ’at despises coonsel! I’m sair 
loobtin’ we canna do muckle mair for her! She maun 
tak her ain gait, for we canna put a collar roon’ her neck, 


142 


DONAL GRANT. 


an’ lead her aboot whaurever we gang. She maun win 
her ain breid; an’ gien she didna that she wad be but the 
mair ta’en up wi’ sic nonsense as the likes o’ Lord Forgue’s 
aye ready to say til ony bonny lass. An’ I varily believe 
she’s safer there wi’ you an’ the hoosekeeper nor whaur 
he could win at her easier, an’ whaur they wud be readier 
to tak her character frae her upo’ less offense, an’ sen’ 
her aboot her business. Fowk’s unco’ jealous aboot their 
hoose ’at wad trouble themsel’s little aboot a lass! Sae 
lang as it’s no upo’ their premises, she may do as she likes 
for them! Doory an’ me, we’ll jist lay oor cares i’ the 
fine sicht an’ afore the compassionate hert o’ the Maister, 
an’ see what he can do for ’s! Sic things aiven we can 
lea’ to him. I houp there’ll be nae mair bludeshed ! He’s 
a fine lad, Steenie Kennedy— come o’ a fine stock! His 
father was a God-fearin’ man — some dour by natur’, but 
wi’ an unco clearin’ up throuw grace. I wud wullin’ly 
hae seen oor Eppy his wife; he’s an honest lad! I’m 
sorry he gied place to wrath, but he may hae repentit by 
the noo, an’, troth, I canna blame him muckle at his time 
o’ life! It’s no as gien you or me did it, ye ken, sir!” 

The chosen agonize after the light; stretch out their 
hands to God; stir up themselves to lay hold upon God! 
These are they who gather grace, as the mountain-tops 
the snow, to send down rivers of water to their fellows. 
The rest are the many called, of whom not a few have to 
be compelled. Alas for the one cast out! 

As he was going home in the dark of a clouded moon- 
light, just as he reached the place where he found Lord 
Forgue, Donal caught sight of the vague figure of a man 
apparently on the watch, and put himself a little on his 
guard as he went on. It was Kennedy. He came up to 
him in a hesitating way. 

“Stephen,” said Donal, for he seemed to wait for him 
to speak first, “you may thank God you are not now in 
hiding.” 

“I wad never hide, sir. Gien I had killed the man, I 
wad hae hauden my face til’t. But it was a foolish thing 
to do, for it’ll only gar the lass think the mair o’ him; 
they aye side wi’ the ane they tak to be ill-used!” 

“I thought you said you would in any case have no 
more to do with her!” said Donal. 

Kennedy was silent for a moment. 


DONAL GRANT 


143 


“A body may tear at their hert,” be muttered, “but 
gien it winua come, what’s the guid o’ sweirin’ oot it 
maun?” 

“Well,” returned Donal, “it may be some comfort to 
you to know that, for the present at least, and I hope for 
altogether, the thing is put a stop to. The housekeeper 
at the castle knows all about it, and she and I will do our 
best. Her grandparents know too. Eppy herself and 
Lord Forgue have both of them promised there shall be 
no more of it. And I do believe, Kennedy, there has 
been nothing more than great silliness on either side. I 
hope you will not forget yourself again. You gave me a 
promise and broke it!” 

“No i’ the letter, sir — only i’ the speerit!” rejoined 
Kennedy: “I gaedna near the castel!” 

“ ‘ Only in the spirit!’ did you say, Stephen? What 
matters the word but for the spirit? The Bible itself lets 
the word go any time for the spirit! Would it have been 
a breach of your promise if you had gone to the castle on 
some service to the man you almost murdered? If ever 
you lay your hand on the lad again, I’ll do my best to 
give you over to justice. But keep quiet, and I’ll do all 
I can for you.” 

Kennedy promised to govern himself, and they parted 
friends. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE SOUL OF THE OLD GARDEN". 

The days went on and on, and still Donal saw nothing, 
or next to nothing of the earl. Thrice he met him on 
the way to the walled garden in which he was wont to 
take his unfrequent exercise; on one of these occasions 
his lordship spoke to him courteously, the next scarcely 
noticed him, the third passed him without recognition. 
Donal, who with equal mind took everything as it came, 
troubled himself not at all about the matter. He was 
doing his work as well as he knew how, and that was 
enough. 

Now also he saw scarcely anything of Lord Forgue 
either; he no longer sought his superior scholarship. 
Lady Arctura he saw generally once a week at the reli- 


144 


DONAL GRANT. 


gious lesson; of Miss Carmichael happily nothing at all. 
But as he grew more familiar with the countenance of 
Lady Arctura, it pained him more and more to see it so 
sad, so far from peaceful. What might be the cause of 
it? 

Most well-meaning young women are in general tolera- 
bly happy — partly perhaps because they have few or no 
aspirations, not troubling themselves about what alone is 
the end of thought — and partly perhaps because they de- 
spise the sadness ever ready to assail them, as something 
unworthy. But if condemned to the round of a torment- 
ing theological mill, and at the same time consumed with 
strenuous endeavor to order thoughts and feelings accord- 
ing to supposed requirements of the gospel, with little to 
employ them and no companions to make them forget 
themselves, such would be at once more sad and more 
worthy. The narrow ways trodden of men are miserable; 
they have high walls on each side, and but an occasional 
glimpse of the sky above; and in such paths Lady Arctura 
was trying to walk. The true way, though narrow, is not 
unlovely: most footpaths are lovelier than high-roads. It 
may be full of toil, but it cannot be miserable. It has 
not walls, but fields and forests and gardens around it, 
and limitless sky overhead. It has its sorrows, but many 
of them lie only on its borders, and they that leave the 
path gather them. Lady Arctura was devouring her soul 
in silence, with such effectual help thereto as the self- 
sufficient friend, who had never encountered a real diffi- 
culty in her life, plenteously gave her. Miss Carmichael 
dealt with her honestly according to her wisdom, but that 
wisdom was foolishness; she said what she thought right, 
but was wrong in what she counted right; nay, she did 
what she thought right — but no amount of doing wrong 
right can set the soul on the high table-land of freedom, 
or endow it with liberating help. 

The autumn passed, and the winter was at hand — a 
terrible time to the old and ailing even in tracts nearer 
the sun — to the young and healthy a merry time even in 
the snows and bitter frosts of eastern Scotland. Davie 
looked chiefly to the skating, and in particular to the 
pleasure he was going to have in teaching Mr. Grant, who 
had never done any sliding except on the soles of his 
nailed shoes: when the time came, he acquired the art the 


If ON A L GRANT. 


145 


more rapidly that he never minded what blunders he made 
in learning a thing. The dread of blundering is a great 
bar to success. 

He visited the Comins often, and found continual com- 
fort and help in their friendship. The letters he received 
from home, especially those of his friend Sir Gibbie, who 
not infrequently wrote also for Donal’s father and mother, 
were a great nourishment to him. As the cold and the 
nights grew, the water-level rose in Donahs well, and the 
poetry began to flow. When we have no summer with- 
out, we must supply it from within. Those must have 
comfort in themselves who are sent to help others. Up in 
his aerie, like an eagle above the low aft'airs of the earth, 
he led a keener life, breathed the breath of a more genuine 
existence than the rest of the house. No doubt the old 
cobbler, seated at his last over a moldy shoe, breathed a 
yet higher air than Donal weaving his verse or reading 
grand old Greek m his tower; but Donal was on the same 
path, the only path with an infinite end — the divine 
destiny. 

He had often thought of trying the old man with some 
of the best poetry he knew, desirous of knowing what 
receptivity he might have for it; but always when with 
him had hitherto forgot his proposed inquiry, and thought 
of it again only after he had left him : the original flow of 
the cobbler’s life put the thought of testing it out of his 
mind. 

One afternoon, when the last of the leaves had fallen, 
and the country was bare as the heart of an old man who 
has lived to himself, Donal, seated before a great fire of 
coal and boat-logs, fell a-thinking of the old garden, van- 
ished with the summer, but living in the memory of its 
delight. All that was left of it at the foot of the hill was 
its corpse, but its soul was in the heaven of Donal’s spirit, 
and there this night gathered to itself a new form. It 
grew and grew in him, till it filled with its thoughts the 
mind of the poet. He turned to his table and began to 
write: with many emendations afterward, the result was 
this: 


146 


DONAL GRANT. 


THE OLD GARDEN. 

I. 

“ I stood in an ancient garden, 

With high red walls around; 

Over them gray and green lichens 
In shadowy arabesque wound. 

“ The topmost climbing blossoms 

On fields kine-haunted looked out; 

But within were shelter and shadow, 

And daintiest odors about; 

“ There were alleys and lurking arbors — 
Deep glooms in which to dive; 

The lawns were.as soft as fleeces — 

Of daisies I counted but five. 

“ The sun-dial was so aged 

It had gathered a thoughtful grace; 

And the round-about of the shadow 
Seem to have furrowed its face. 

“ The flowers were all of the oldest 
That ever in garden sprung; 

Red, and blood-red, and dark purple, 

The rose lamps flaming hung. 

“ Along the borders fringed 

With broad, thick edges of box, 

Stood foxgloves and gorgeous poppies, 

And great eyed hollyhocks. 

“ There were junipers trimmed into castles, 
And ash trees bowed into tents; 

For the garden, though ancient and pensive, 
Still wore quaint ornaments. 

“ It was all so stately fantastic, 

Its old wind hardly could stir: 

Young Spring, when she merrily entered, 
Must feel it no place for her. 

II. 

“ k I stood in the summer morning 
Under a cavernous yew; 

The sun was gently climbing 

And the scents rose after the dew 


DONAL GRANT. 


147 


i{ I saw tlie wise old mansion, 

Like a cow in the noonday heat, 

Stand in a pool of shadows 
That rippled about its feet. 

“ Its windows were oriel and latticed, 
Lowly and wide and fair; 

And its chimneys, like clustered pillars. 
Stood in the thin blue air. 

“ White doves, like the thoughts of a lady. 
Haunted it in and out; 

With a train of green and blue comets 
The peacock went marching about. 

" The birds in the trees were singing 
A song as old as the world. 

Of love and green leaves and sunshine. 
And winter folded and furled. 

“ They sang that never was sadness 
But it melted and passed away; 

They sang that never was darkness 
But in came the conquering day. 

“ And I knew that a maiden somewhere, 

In a sober sunlit gloom, 

In a nimbus of shining garments 
An aureole of white- browed bloom, 

“ Looked out on the garden dreamy, 

And knew not that it was old; 

Looked past the gray and the somber, 
And saw but the green and the gold. 

III. 

“ I stood in the gathering twilight, 

In a gently blowing wind; 

And the house looked half-uneasy, 

Like one that was left behind. 

“ The roses had lost their redness, 

And cold the grass had grown; 

At roost were the pigeons and peacock. 
And the dial was dead-gray stone. 

“ The world by the gathering twilight 
In a gauzy dusk was clad; 

It went in through my eyes to my spirit. 
And made me a little sad. 


148 


JDONAL GRANT. 


“ Grew and gathered the twilight, 

And filled my heart and brain; 

The sadness grew more than sadness, 

And turned to a gentle pain. 

“ Browned and brooded the twilight, 

And sank down through the calm. 

Till it seemed for some human sorrows 
There could not be any balm. 

IV. 

“ Then I knew that up a staircase, 

Which untrod will yet creak and shake, 
Deep in a distant chamber, 

A ghost was coming awake. 

“ In the growing darkness growing — 
Growing till her eyes appear 
Like spots of a deeper twilight, 

But more transparent clear — 


“ Thin as hot air up-trembling, 

Thin as sun-molten crape, 

The deepening shadow of something 
Taketli a certain shape; 

“ A shape whose hands are uplifted 
To throw back her blinding hair; 

A shape whose bosom is heaving, 

But draws not in the air. 

“ And I know by what time the moonlight 
On her nest of shadows will sit, 

Out on the dim lawn gliding 

That shadow of shadows will flit. 

V. 

“ The moon is dreaming upward 
From a sea of cloud and gleam; 

She looks as if she had seen us 
Never but in a dream. 


“ Down that stair I know she is coming, 
Bare-footed, lifting her train: 

It creaks not — she hears it creaking, 
For the sound is in her brain. 


DONAL GRANT. 


149 


“ Oat at the side door she’s coming, 
With a timid glance right and left; 
Her look is hopeless yet eager, 

The look of a heart bereft. 


“ Across the lawn she is flitting, 

Her eddying robe in the wind — 

Are her fair feet bending the grasses ? 
Her hair is half -lifted behind 1 

VI. 

“ Shall I stay to look on her nearer? 
Would she start and vanish away? 
No, no; she will never see me, 

If I stand as near as I may. 


“ It is not this wind she is feeling, 

Not this cool grass below; 

’Tis the wind and the grass of an evening 
A hundred years ago. 


** She sees no roses darkling, 

No stately hollyhocks dim; 

She is only thinking and dreaming 
Of the garden, the night, and him; 

“ Of the unlit windows behind her, 

Of the timeless dial -stone, 

Of the trees, and the moon, and the shadows, 
A hundred years agone. 


“ ’Tis a night for all ghostly lovers 
To haunt the best-loved spot: 

Is he come in his dreams to this garden ? 

I gaze, but I see him not. 

VII. 

“ I will not look on her nearer — 

My heart would be torn in twain; 

From mine eyes the garden would vanish 
In the falling of their rain. 


“ I will not look on a sorrow 
That darkens into despair; 

On the surge of a heart that cannot — 
Yet cannot cease to bear. 


150 


DONAL GRANT. 


“ My soul to hers would be calling — 
She would hear no word it said; 
If I cried aloud in the stillness 
She would never turn her head. 

“ She is dreaming the sky above her, 
She is dreaming the earth below; 
This night she lost her lover 
A hundred years ago.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A PRESENCE, YET NOT A PRESENCE. 

The twilight had fallen while he wrote, and the wind 
had risen. It was now blowing a gale. When he could 
no longer see, he rose to light his lamp, and looked out of 
the window. All was dusk around him. Above and be- 4 
low was nothing to be distinguished from the mass; noth- 
ing and something seemed in it to share an equal uncer- 
tainty. He heard the wind, but could not see the clouds 
that swept before it, for all was cloud overhead, and no 
change of light or feature showed the shifting of the 
measureless bulk. Gray stormy space was the whole idea 
of the creation. He was gazing into a void — was it not 
rather a condition of things inappreciable by his senses? 

A strange feeling came over him as of looking from a win- 
dow in the wall of the visible into the region unknown, to 
man shapeless quite, therefore terrible, wherein wander 
the things all that have not yet found or form or sensible 
embodiment, so as to manifest themselves to eyes or ears 
or hands of mortals. As he gazed, the huge shapeless 
hulks of the ships of chaos, dimly awful suggestions of 
animals uncreate, yet vaguer motions of what was not, 
came heaving up, to vanish even from the fancy as they 
approached his window. Earth lay far below, invisible; 
only through the night came the moaning of the sea, as 
the wind drove it, in still enlarging waves, upon the flat 
shore, a level of doubtful grass and sand, three miles 
away. It seemed to his heart as if the moaning were the 
voice of the darkness, lamenting, like a repentant Satan 
or Judas, that it was not the light, could not hold the 
light, might not become as the light, but must that mo- 


TONAL GRANT. 


151 


ment cease when the light began to enter it. Darkness 
and moaning was all that the earth contained! Would the 
souls of the mariners shipwrecked this night go forth into 
the ceaseless turmoil, or would they, leaving behind them 
the sense for storms, as for all things soft and sweet as 
well, enter only a vast silence, where was nothing to be 
aware of but each solitary self? Thoughts and theories 
many passed through Donahs mind as he sought to land 
the conceivable from the wandering bosom of the limit- 
less; and he was just arriving at the conclusion that, as 
all things seen must be after the fashion of the unseen 
whence they come, as the very genius of embodiment is 
likeness, therefore the soul of man must of course have 
natural relations with matter; but, on the other hand, as 
the spirit must be the home and origin of all this mold- 
ing, assimilating, modeling energy, and the spirit only 
that is in harmonious oneness with its origin can fully 
exercise the deputed creative power, it can be only in pro- 
portion to the eternal life in them that spirits are able to 
draw to themselves matter and clothe themselves in it, so 
entering into full relation with the world of storms and 
sunsets; he was, I say, just arriving at this hazarded 
conclusion, when he started out of his reverie, and was 
suddenly all ear to listen. Again! Yes! it was the same 
sound that had sent him that first night wandering 
through the house in fruitless quest. It came in two or 
three fitful chords that melted into each other like the 
colors in the lining of a shell, then ceased. He went to 
the door, opened it, and listened. A cold wind came 
rushing up the stair. He heard nothing. He stepped 
out on the stair, shut his door, and listened. It came 
again — a strange, unearthly musical cry! If ever disem- 
bodied sound went wandering in the wind, just such a 
sound must it be! Knowing little of music save in the 
forms of tone and vowel-change and rhythm and rhyme, 
he felt as if he could have listened forever to the wild, 
wandering sweetness of its lamentation. Almost imme- 
diately it ceased — then once more came again, apparently 
from far off, dying away on the distant tops of the billowy 
air, out of whose wandering bosom it had first issued. It 
was as the wailing of a summer wind caught and swept 
along in a tempest from the frozen north. 

The moment he ceased to expect it any more, he began 


152 


DONAL GRANT. 


to think whether it must not have come from the house. 
He stole down the stair — to do what, he did not know. 
He could not go following an airy nothing all over the 
castle: of a great part of it he as yet knew nothing! His 
constructive mind had yearned after a complete idea of 
the building, for it was almost a passion with him to fit 
the outsides and insides of things together; but there 
were suits of rooms into which, except the earl and Lady 
Arctura were to leave home, he could not hope to enter. 
It was little more than mechanically, therefore, that he 
went vaguely after the sound; and ere he was half-way 
down the stair, he recognized the hopelessness of the pur- 
suit. He went on, however, to the schoolroom, where tea 
was waiting him. 

He had returned to his room and was sitting again at 
work, now reading and meditating, when, in one of the 
lulls of the storm, he became aware of another sound — 
one most unusual to his ears, for he never required any 
attendance in his room — that of steps coming up the stair 
— heavy steps, not as of one on some ordinary errand. He 
waited, listening. The steps came nearer and nearer, and 
stopped at his door. A hand fumbled about upon it, 
found the latch, lifted it, and entered it. To Donal’s 
wonder — and dismay as well — it was the earl. His dismay 
arose from his appearance: he was deadly pale, and his 
eyes more like those of a corpse than a man among his 
living fellows. Donal started to his feet. 

The apparition turned its head toward him; but in its 
look was no atom of recognition, no acknowledgment or 
even perception of his presence; the sound of his rising 
had had merely a half-mechanical influence upon its brain. 
It turned away immediately, and went on to the window. 
There it stood, much as Donal had stood a little while 
before — looking out, but with the attitude of one listen- 
ing rather than one trying to see. There was indeed 
nothing but the blackness to be seen — and nothing to be 
heard but the roaring of the wind, with the roaring of the 
great billows rolled along in it. As it stood, the time to 
Donal seemed long: it was but about five minutes. Was 
the man out of his mind, or only a sleep-walker? How 
could he be asleep so early in the night? 

As Donal stood doubting and wondering, once more 
came the musical cry out of the darkness — and imme* 


DONAL GRANT. 


153 


diately from the earl a response — a soft, low murmur, by 
degrees becoming audible, in the tone of one meditating 
aloud, but in a restrained ecstasy. From his words he 
seemed still to be hearkening the sounds aerial, though to 
Donal at least they came no more. 

“Yet once again,” he murmured, “once again ere I 
forsake the flesh are my ears blessed with that voice! It 
is the song of the eternal woman! For me she sings! 
Sing on, siren; my soul is a listening universe, and therein 
naught but thy voice!” 

He paused, and began afresh: 

“It is the wind in the tree of life! Its leaves rustle in 
words of love. Under its shadow I shall lie, with her I 
love — and killed ! Ere that day come, she will have for- 
given and forgotten, and all will be well! 

“Hark the notes! Clear as a flute! Full and stringent 
as a violin! They are colors! They are flowers! They are 
alive! I can see them as they grow, as they blow ! Those are 
primroses! Those are pimpernels! Those high, intense, 
burning tones — so soft, yet so certain — what are they? 
Jasmine? Ho, that flower is not a note! It is a chord — 
and what a chord! I mean, what a flower! I never saw 
that flower before — never on this earth ! It must be a 
flower of the paradise whence comes the music! It is! It 
is! Do I not remember the night when I sailed in the 
great ship over the ocean of the stars, and scented the airs 
of heaven, and saw the pearly gates gleaming across myr- 
iads of wavering miles! — saw, plain as I see them now, 
the flowers on the fields within! Ah, me! the dragon 
that guards the golden apples! See his crest — his crest 
and his emerald eyes! He comes floating up through the 
murky lake! It is Geryon! — come to bear me to the gyre 
below!” 

He turned, and with a somewhat quickened step left 
the room, hastily shutting the door behind him, as if to 
keep back the creature of his vision. 

Strong-hearted and strong-brained, Donal had yet stood 
absorbed as if he too were out of the body, and knew noth- 
ing more of this earth. There is something more terrible 
in a presence that is not a presence than in a vision of the 
bodiless: that is, a present ghost is not so terrible as an 
absent one, a present but deserted body. He stood a 
moment helpless, then pulled himself together and tried 


154 


DONAL GRANT. 


to" think. What should he do? What could he do? 
What was required of him? Was anything required of 
him? Had he any right to do anything? Could any- 
thing be done that would not both be and cause a wrong? 
His first impulse was to follow: a man in such a condition 
was surely not to be left to go whither he would among 
the heights and depths of the castle, where he might 
break his neck any moment! Interference no doubt was 
dangerous, but he would follow him at least a little way! 
He heard the steps going down the stair and made haste 
after them. But ere they could have reached the bottom, 
the sound of them ceased; and Donal knew the earl must 
have left the stair at a point from which he could not fol- 
low him. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

EPPY AGAIN. 

He would gladly have told his friend the cobbler all 
about the strange occurrence; but he did not feel sure it 
would be right to carry a report of the house where he 
held a position of trust; and what made him doibtful 
was that first he doubted whether the cobbler would con- 
sider it right. But he went to see him the next day, in 
the desire to be near the only man to whom it was possible 
he might tell what he had seen. 

The moment he entered the room, where the cobbler as 
usual sat at work by his wife, he saw that something was 
the matter. But they welcomed him with their usual 
cordiality, nor was it many minutes before Mistress 
Comin made him acquainted with the cause of their 
anxiety. 

“ We’re jist a wee triblet, sir,” she said, “aboot Eppy!” 

“I am very sorry,” said Donal, with a pang; he had 
thought things were going right with her. “What is the 
matter?” 

“It’s no sae easy to say!” returned the grandmother. 
“It may weel be only a fancy o’ the auld fowk, but it 
seems to baith o’ ’s she has a w’y wi’ her ’at disna come 
o’ the richt. She’ll be that meek as gien she thoucht 
naething at a’ o’ hersel’, an’ the next moment be angert 
at a word. She canna bide a syllable said ’at’s no correc’ 


DONAL GRANT. 


155 


to the verra hair. It’s as gien she dreidit waur abint it, 
an’ wnd mairch straucht to the defense. Pm no makin’ 
my meanin’ that clear, I doobt; but ye’ll ken ’t fora’ 
that!” 

“I think I do,” said Donal. “I see nothing of her.” 

“I wudna mak a won’er o’ that, sir! She may weel 
hand oot o’ your gait, feelin’ rebukit ’afore ane ’at kens 
aboot her gaein’s on wi’ my lord!” 

“I don’t know how I should see her, though!” returned 
Donal. 

“Didna she sweep oot the schoolroom first whan ye 
gaed, sir?” 

‘‘When I think of it — yes.” 

“Does she still that same?” 

“I do not know. Understanding at what hour in the 
morning the room will he ready for me, I do not go to it 
sooner.” 

“It’s but the luik, an’ the general cairriage o’ the 
lassie!” said the old woman. “Gien we had onything to tak 
a haud o’, we wad maybe think the less. True, she was 
aye some — what ye micht ca’ a bit cheengeahle in her 
w’ys; but she was aye, whan she had the chance, unco’ 
willin’ to gie her faith er there or mysel’ a spark o’ glaid- 
ness like. It pleased her to be pleasin’ i’ the eyes o’ the 
auld fowk, though they war but her ain. But noo we 
maunna say a word til her. We hae nae business to luik 
til her for naething! No ’at she’s aye like that; but it 
comes sae aft ’at at last wedaur hardly open oor moo’s for 
the fear o’ hoo she’ll tak it. Only a’ the time it’s mair 
as gien she was flingin’ something frae her, something 
she didna like an’ wud fain be rid o’, than ’at she cared 
sae verra muckle aboot onything we said no til her min’. 
She taks a haud o’ the words, no doobt! but I canna help 
thinkin’ ’at ’maist whatever we said, it wud be the same. 
Something to compleen o’ ’s never wantin’ whan ye’re 
ill-pleast a’ready!” 

“It’s no the duin’ o’ the richt, ye see,” said the cobbler 
— “I mean, that’s no itsel’ the en’, but the richt humor 
o’ the sowl toward a’ things thoucht or felt or dune! 
That’s richteousness, an’ oot o’ that comes, o’ the verra 
necessity o’ natur’, a’ richt deeds o’ whatever kin’. 
Whaur they comena furth, it’s whaur the sowl, the 
thoucht o’ the man’s no richt. Oor puir lassie shaws a’ 


156 


TONAL GRANT. 


mainner o’ sma’ infirmities jist ’cause the humor o’ 
her sowl’s no hermonious wi’ the trowth, no hermonious 
in itsel’, no at ane wi’ the true thing — wi’ the true man — 
wi’ the true God. It may even be said it’s a sma’ thing 
’at a man sud du wrang, sae lang as he’s capable o’ duin’ 
wrang, an’ lovesna the richt wi’ hert an’ sowl. But eh, 
it’s no a sma’ thing ’at he sud be capable!” 

“Surely, Anerew,” interposed his wife, holding up her 
hands in mild deprecation, “ye wudna lat the lassie do 
wrang gien ye could hand her richt?” 

“No, I wudna,” replied her husband — “supposin’ the 
haudin’ o’ her richt to fa’ in wi’ ony degree o’ perception 
o’ the richt on her pairt. But supposin’ it was only the 
haudin’ o’ her frae ill by ootward constraint, leavin’ her 
ready upo’ the first opportunity to turn aside; whereas, 
gien she had dune wrang, she wud repent o’ ’t, an’ see 
what a foul thing it was to gang again’ the holy wull o’ 
Him ’at made an’ dee’d for her — I lea’ ye to jeedge for 
yersel’ what ony man ’at loved God an’ loved the lass an’ 
loved the richt wud chaise. We maun hand baith een 
open upo’ the trowth, an’ no blink sidewise upo’ the warl’ 
an’ its richteousness wi’ ane o’ them. Wha wadna be 
Zacchay wi’ the Lord in his hoose, an’ the richteousness 
o’ God himsel’ growin’ in his heart, raither nor the prood 
Pharisee wha kent nae ill he was duin’ an’ thoucht it a 
shame to speak to sic a man as Zacchay?” 

The grandmother held her peace, thinking probably 
that so long as one kept respectable, there remained the 
more likelihood of a spiritual change. 

“Is there anything you think I could do?” asked Donal. 
“I confess I am afraid of meddling.” 

“I wudna hae you appear, sir,” said Andrew, “in ony- 
thing concernin’ her. Ye’re a yoong man yersel’, an’ 
fowk’s herts as well as fowl’s tongues are no to be lippent 
til. I hae seen fowk, ’cause they couldna believe a body 
duin’ a thing frae a sma’ modicum o’ gude wull, set them- 
sel’s to invent what they ca’d a motive til accoont for’t — 
something, that is, that wud hae prevailt wi’ themsel’s to 
gar them du’t. Sic fowk canna un’erstan’ a body duin’ 
onything jist ’cause it was worth duin’ in itsel’!” 

“But maybe,” said the old woman, returning to the 
practical, “as ye hae been pleased to say ye’re on freen’ly 
terms wi’ Mistress Brookes, ye micht jist see gien she’s 
observed ony ten’ency to resumption o’ the auld affair!” 


DONA L GRANT. 


157 


Donal promised, and as soon as he reached the castle 
sought an interview with the housekeeper. She told him 
she had been particularly pleased of late with Eppy’s 
attention to her work and readiness to make herself use- 
ful. If she did look sometimes a little out of heart, they 
must remember, she said, that they had been young them- 
selves once, and that it was not so easy to forget as to give 
up. But she would keep her eyes open ! 


CHAPTER XXX. 

LORD MORVEN. 

The winter came at last in good earnest — first black 
frost, then white snow, then sleet and wind and rain; 
then snow again, which fell steady and calm, and lay 
thick. After that came hard frost, and brought plenty of 
skating, and to Davie the delight of teaching his master. 
Donal had many falls, but was soon, partly in virtue of 
those same falls, a very decent skater. Davie claimed all 
the merit of his successful training; and when his master 
did anything particularly well, would remark with pride 
that he had taught him. But the good thing in it for 
Davie was, that he noted the immediate faith with which 
Donal did or tried to do what he told him; this reacted 
in opening his mind to the beauty and dignity of obedi- 
ence, and went a long way toward revealing the low moral 
condition of the man who seeks freedom through refusal 
to act at the will of another. He who does so will come 
by degrees to have no will of his own, and act only from 
impulse — which may be the will of a devil. So Donal 
and Davie grew together into one heart of friendship. 
Donal never longed for his hours with Davie to pass, and 
Davie was never so happy as when with Donal. The one 
was gently leading the other into the paths of liberty. 
Nothing but the teaching of Him who made the human 
soul can make that soul free, but it is in great measure 
through those who have already learned that he teaches; 
and Davie was an apt pupil, promising to need less of the 
discipline of failure and pain that he was strong to believe 
and ready to obey. 

But Donal was not all the day with Davie, and latterly 


158 


DONAL 0RAN1 


had begun to feel a little anxious about the time the boy 
spent away from him — partly with his brother, partly with 
the people about the stable, and partly with his father, 
who evidently found the presence of his younger son less 
irksome to him than that of any other person, and saw 
more of him than of Forgue: the amount of loneliness 
the earl could endure was amazing. But after what he 
had seen and heard, Donal was most anxious concerning 
his time with his father, only he felt it a delicate thing to 
ask him about it. At length, however, Davie himself 
opened up the matter. 

“Mr. Grant, ” he said one day, “I wish you could hear 
the grand fairy-stories my papa tells !” 

“I wish I might !” answered Donal. 

“I will ask him to let you come and hear. I have told 
him you can make fairy-tales too; only he has quite an- 
other way of doing it; and I must confess/’ added Davie 
a little pompously, “I do not follow him so easily as you. 
Besides,” he added, “I never can find anything in what 
you call the cupboard behind the curtain of the story. I 
wonder sometimes if his stories have any cupboard! I 
will ask him to-day to let you come.” 

“I think that would hardly do,” said Donal. “Your 
father likes to tell his boy fairy-tales, but he might not 
care to tell them to a man. You must remember, too, 
that though I have been in the house what you think a long 
time, your father has seen very little of me, and might 
feel mein the way: invalids do not generally enjoy the 
company of strangers. You had better not ask him.” 

“But I have often told him how good you are, Mr. 
Grant, and how you can’t bear anything that is not right, 
and I am sure he must like you — I don’t mean so well as 
I do, because you haven’t to teach him anything, and 
nobody can love anybody so well as the one he teaches to 
be good.” 

“Still I think you had better leave it alone lest he 
should not like your asking him. I should be sorry to 
have you disappointed.” 

“I do not mind that so much as I used. If you do not 
tell me I am not to do it, I think I will venture.” 

Donal said no more. He did not feel at liberty, from 
his own feeling merely, to check the boy. The thing was 
not wrong, and something might be intended to come out 


DONAL GRANT. 


159 


of it ! He shrank from the least ruling of events, believing 
man’s only call to action is duty. So he left Davie to do 
as he pleased. 

“Does your father often tell you a fairy-tale?” he asked. 

“Not every day, sir.” 

“What time does he tell them?” 

“Generally when I go to him after tea.” 

“Do you go any time you like?” * 

“Yes; but he does not always let me stay. Sometimes 
he talks about mamma, I think; but only coming into 
the fairy-tale. He has told me one in the middle of the 
day. I think he would if I woke him up in the night! 
But that would not do, for he has terrible headaches. 
Perhaps that is what sometimes makes his stories so terri- 
ble I have to beg him to stop!” 

“And does he stop?” 

“Well — no-^-I don’t think he ever does. When a story 
is once begun I suppose it ought to be finished!” 

So the matter rested for the time. But about a week 
after, Donal received one morning through the butler an 
invitation to dine with the earl, and concluded it was due 
to Davie, whom he therefore expected to find with his 
father. He put on his best clothes and followed Sim- 
mons up the grand staircase. The great rooms of the cas- 
tle were on the first floor, but he passed the entrance to 
them, following his guide up and up to the second floor, 
where the earl had his own apartments. Here he was 
shown into a small room, richly furnished after a somberly 
ornate fashion, the drapery and coverings much faded, 
worn even to shabbiness. It had been for a century or so 
the private sitting-room of the lady of the castle, but was 
now used by the earl, perhaps in memory of his wife. 
Here he received his sons, and now Donal, but never any 
whom business or politeness compelled him to see. 

There was no one in the room when Donal entered, but 
after about ten minutes a door opened at the further end, 
and Lord Morven appearing from his bedroom, shook 
hands with him with some faint show of kindness. Al- 
most the same moment the butler entered from a third 
door, and said dinner waited. The earl walked on, and 
Donal followed. This room also was a small one. The 
meal was laid on a little round table. There were but 
two covers, and Simmons alone was in waiting. 


160 


DONAL GRANT. 


TVhile they ate and drank, which his lordship did spar- 
ingly, not a word was spoken. Donal would have found 
it embarrassing had he not been prepared for the peculiar. 
His lordship took no notice of his guest, leaving him to 
the care of the butler. He looked very white and worn — 
Donal thought a good deal worse than when he saw him 
first. His cheeks were more sunken, his hair more gray, 
and his eyes more weary — with a consuming fire in them 
that had no longer much fuel and was burning remnants. 
He stooped over his plate as if to hide the operation of 
eating, and drank his wine with a trembling hand. Every 
movement indicated indifference to both his food and his 
drink. 

At length the more solid part of the meal was removed, 
and they were left alone, fruit upon the table, and two 
wine-decanters. From one of them the earl helped him- 
self, then passed it to Donal, saying: 

“You are very good to my little Davie, Mr. Grant! He 
is full of your kindness to him. There is nobody like 
you!” 

“A little goes a long way with Davie, my lord,” an- 
swered Donal. 

“Then much must go a longer wav!” said the earl. 

There was nothing remarkable in the words, yet he spoke 
them with the difficulty a man accustomed to speak, and 
to weigh his words, might find in clothing a new thought 
to his satisfaction. The effort seemed to have tried him, 
and he took a sip of wine. This, however, he did after 
every briefest sentence he uttered: a sip only he took, 
nothing like a mouthful. 

Donal told him that Davie, of all the boys he had 
known, was far the quickest, and that just because he was 
morally the most teachable. 

“You greatly gratify me, Mr. Grant,” said the earl. 
“I have long wished such a man as you for Davie. If 
only I had known you when Forgue was preparing for 
college!” 

“I must have been at that time only at college myself, 
my lord!” 

“True, true!” 

“But for Davie, it is a privilege to teach him.” 

“If only it might last awhile!” returned the earl. 
“But of course you have the church in your eye!” 


DONAL GRANT 1 


161 


“My lord, I have not.” 

“What!” cried his lordship almost eagerly; “yon in- 
tend giving your life to teaching?” 

“My lord,” returned Donal, “I never trouble myself 
about my life. Why should we burden the mule of the 
present with the camel-load of the future? I take what 
comes — what is sent me, that is.” 

“You are right, Mr. Grant! If I were in your position, 
I should think just as you do. But, alas! I have never 
had any choice!” 

“Perhaps your lordship has not chosen to choose!” 
Donal was on the point of saying, but bethought himself 
in time not to hazard the remark. 

“If I were a rich man, Mr. Grant,” the earl continued, 
“I would secure your services for a time indefinite; but, 
as every one knows, not an acre of the property belongs to 
me, or goes with the title. Davie, dear boy, will have 
nothing but a thousand or two. The marriage I have in 
view for Lord Forgue will arrange a future for him.” 

“I hope there will be some love in the marriage!” said 
Donal uneasily, with a vague thought of Eppy. 

“I had no intention,” returned his lordship with cold 
politeness, “of troubling you concerning Lord Forgue!” 

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said Donal. 

“Davie, poor boy — he is my anxiety!” resumed the 
earl, in his former condescendingly friendly, half-sleepy 
tone. “What to do with him, I have not yet succeeded 
in determining. If the church of Scotland were Episcopal 
now, we might put him into that; he would be an honor 
to it! But as it has no dignities to confer, it is not the 
place for one of his birth and social position. A few 
shabby hundreds a year, and the associations he would 
necessarily be thrown into! However honorable the pro- 
fession in itself!” he added, with a bow to Donal, appar- 
ently unable to get it out of his head that he had an 
embryo clergyman before him. 

“Davie is not quite a man yet,” said Donal; “and by 
the time he begins to think of a profession, he will, I 
trust, be fit to make a choice: the boy has a great deal of 
common sense. If your lordship will pardon me, I cannot 
help thinking there is no need to trouble about him.” 

“It is very well for one in your position to think in that 
way, Mr. Grant! Men like you are free to choose; you 


162 


DONAL GRANT. 


may make your bread as you please. But men in our 
position are greatly limited in their choice; the paths 
open to them are few. Tradition oppresses us. We are 
slaves to the dead and buried. I could well wish I had 
been born in your humbler but in truth less contracted 
sphere. Certain roles are not open to you, to be sure; 
but your life in the open air, following your sheep, and 
dreaming all things beautiful and grand in the world 
beyond you, is entrancing. It is the life to make a poet!” 

“Or a king!” thought Donal. “But the earl would 
have made a discontented shepherd!” 

The man who is not content where he is could never 
halve been content somewhere else, though he might have 
complained less. 

“Take another glass of wine, Mr. Grant,” said his lord- 
ship, filling his own from the other decanter. “Try this; 
I believe you will like it better.” 

“In truth, my lord,” answered Donal, “I have drunk 
so little wine that I do not know one sort from another.” 

“You know whisky better, I dare say! Would you like 
some now? Touch the bell behind you.” 

“No, thank you, my lord; I know as little about 
whisky; my mother would never let us even taste it, and 
I have never tasted it.” 

“A new taste is a gain to the being.” 

“I suspect, however, a new appetite can only be a loss.” 

As he said this, Donal half-rnechanically filled a glass 
from the decanter his host had pushed toward him. 

“I should like you, though,” resumed his lordship, 
after a short pause, “to keep your eyes open to the fact 
that Davie must do something for himself. You would 
then be able to let me know by and by what you think 
him fit for!” 

“I will with pleasure, my lord. Tastes may not be 
infallible guides to what is fit for us, but they may lead us 
to the knowledge of what we are fit for.” 

“Extremely well said!” returned the earl. 

I do not think he understood in the least what Donal 
meant. 

“Shall I try how he takes to trigonometry? He might 
care to learn land-surveying! Gentlemen now, not infre- 
quently take charge of the properties of their more fa- 
vored relatives. There is Mr. Graeme, your own factor, 
my lord — a relative, I understand!” 


DONAL GRANT. 


163 


“A distant one,” answered his lordship with marked 
coldness, “the degree of relationship hardly to be counted.” 

“In the lowlands, my lord, you do not care to count kin 
as we do in the highlands! My heart warms to the word 
kinsman.” 

“You have not found kinship so awkward as I, possi- 
bly!” said his lordship with a watery smile. “The man 
in humble position may allow the claim of kin to any ex- 
tent; he has nothing, therefore nothing can be taken 
from him! But the man who has would be the poorest 
of the clan if he gave to every needy relation.” 

“I never knew the man so poor,” answered Donal, 
“that he had nothing to give. But the things of the poor 
are hardly to the purpose of the predatory relative.” 

“ ‘Predatory relative!’ — a good phrase!” said his lord- 
ship with a sleepy laugh, though his eyes were wide open. 
His lips did not seem to care to move, yet he looked 
pleased. “To tell you the truth,” he began again, “at 
one period of my history I gave and gave till I was tired, 
of giving! Ingratitude was the sole return. At one 
period I had large possessions — larger than I like to think 
of now ; if I had the tenth part of what 1 have given away, 
I should not be uneasy concerning Davie.” 

“There is no fear of Davie, my lord, so long as he is 
brought up with the idea that he must work for his 
bread.” 

Ilis lordship made no answer, and his look reminded 
Donal of that he wore when he came to his chamber. A 
moment, and he rose and began to pace the room. An 
indescribable suggestion of an invisible yet luminous cloud 
hovered about his forehead and eyes — which latter, if not 
fixed on very vacancy, seemed to have got somewhere near 
it. At the fourth or fifth turn he opened the door by 
which he had entered, continuing a remark he had begun 
to Donal— of which, although he heard every word and 
seemed on the point ot understanding something, he had 
not caught the sense when his lordship disappeared, still 
talking. Donal thought it therefore his part to follow 
him, and found himself in his lordship’s bedroom. But 
out of this his lordship had already gone, through an 
opposite door, and Donal, still following, entered an old 
picture-gallery, of which he had heard Davie speak, but 
which the earl kept private for his exercise indoors. It 


164 


DONAL GRANT. 


was a long, narrow place, hardly more than a wide corri- 
dor, and appeared nowhere to afford distance enough for 
seeing a picture. But Donal could ill judge, for the sole 
light in the place came from the fires and candles in the 
rooms whose doors they had left open behind them, with 
just a faint glimmer from the vapor-huried moon, suffic- 
ing to show the outline of window after window, and re- 
vealing something of the great length of the gallery. 

By the time Donal overtook the earl, he was some dis- 
tance down, holding straight on into the long dusk, and 
still talking. 

“This is my favorite promenade, ” he said, as if brought 
to himself by the sound of DonaTs overtaking steps. 
“After dinner always, Mr. Grant, wet weather or dry, still 
or stormy, I walk here. What do I care for the weather? 
It will be time when I am old to consult the barometer!” 

Donal wondered a little: there seemed no great hardi- 
hood in the worst of weather to go pacing a picture- 
gallery, where the fiercest storm that ever blew could send 
in only little threads of air through the chinks of windows 
and doors! 

“Yes,” his lordship went on, “I taught myself hard- 
ship in my boyhood, and I reap the fruits of it in my 
prime! Come up here: I will show you a prospect un- 
equaled.” 

He stopped in front of a large picture, and began to 
talk as if expatiating on the points of a landscape out- 
spread before him. His remarks belonged to something 
magnificent; but whether they were applicable to the 
picture Donal could not tell; there was light enough only 
to give a faint gleam to its gilded frame. 

“Reach beyond reach!” said his lordship; “endless! 
infinite! How would not poor Maldon, with his ever 
fresh ambition after the unattainable, have gloated on 
such a scene! In Nature alone you front success! She 
does what she means! She alone does what she means!” 

“If,” said Donal, more for the sake of confirming the 
earl’s impression that he had a listener than from any 
idea that he would listen — “if you mean the object of 
Nature is to present us with perfection, I cannot allow she 
does what she intends; you rarely see her prodnce any- 
thing she would herself call perfect. But if her object be 
to make us behold perfection with the inner eye, this 


DONAL GRANT. 


165 


object she certainly does gain, and that just by stopping 
short of ” 

He did not finish the sentence. A sudden change was 
upon him, absorbing him so that he did not even try to 
account for it: something seemed to give way in his head 
— as if a bubble burst in his brain; and from that moment 
whatever the earl said, and whatever arose in his own 
mind, seemed to have outward existence as well. He 
heard and knew the voice of his host, but seemed also in 
some inexplicable way, which at the time occasioned him 
no surprise, to see the things which had their origin in 
the brain of the earl. Whether he went in very deed out 
with him into the night, he did not know — he felt as if 
he had gone, and thought he had not — but when he woke 
the next morning in his bed at the top of the tower, 
which he had no recollection of climbing, he was as weary 
as if he had been walking the night through. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

BEWILDERMENT. 

His first thought was of a long and delightful journey 
he had made on horseback with the earl — through scenes 
of entrancing interest and variety — with the present result 
of a strange weariness, almost misery. What had befallen 
him? Was the thing a fact or a fancy? If a fancy, how 
was he so weary? If a fact, how could it have been? 
Had he in any way been the earl’s companion through 
such a long night as it seemed? Could they have visited 
\I1 the places whose remembrance lingered in his brain? 
He was so confused, so bewildered, so haunted with a 
shadowy uneasiness almost like remorse, that he even 
dreaded the discovery of the cause of it all. Might a man 
so lose hold of himself as to be no more certain he had 
ever possessed or could ever possess himself again? 

He bethought himself at last that he might perhaps 
have taken more wine than his head could stand. Yet 
he remembered leaving his glass unemptied to follow the 
earl; and it was some time after that before the change 
came! Could it have been drunkenness? Had it been 
slowly coming without his knowing it? He could hardly 


166 


DONAL GRANT. 


believe it! But whatever it was, it had left him unhappy, 
almost ashamed. What would the earl think of him? He 
must have concluded him unfit any longer to keep charge 
of his son! For his own part he did not feel he was to 
blame, but rather that an accident had befallen him. 
Whence, then, this sense of something akin to shame? 
Why should he be ashamed of anything coming upon him 
from without? Of that shame he had to be ashamed, as 
of a lack of faith in God! Would God leave his creature 
who trusted in him at the mercy of a chance — of a glass 
of wine taken in ignorance? There was a thing to be 
ashamed of, and with good cause! 

He got up, found to his dismay that it was almost ten 
o’clock — his hour for rising in winter being six — dressed 
in haste, and went down, wondering that Davie had not 
come to see after him. 

In the schoolroom he found him waiting for him. The 
boy sprang up and darted to meet him. 

“I hope you are better, Mr. Grant!” he said. “I am 
so glad you are able to be down!” 

“I am quite well,” answered Donal. “I can’t think 
what made me sleep so long! Why didn’t you come and 
wake me, Davie, my boy?” 

“Because Simmons told me you were ill, and I must not 
disturb you if you were ever so late in coming down.” 

“I hardly deserve any breakfast!” said Donal, turning 
to the table; “but if you will stand by me and read while 
I take my coffee, we shall save a little time so.” 

“Yes, sir. But your coffee must be quite cold! I will 
ring.” 

“No, no; I must not waste any more time. A man 
who cannot drink cold coffee ought to come down while it 
is hot.” 

“Forgue won’t drink cold coffee!” said Davie. “I 
don’t see why you should!” 

“Because I prefer to do with my coffee as I please; I 
will not have hot coffee for my master. I won’t have it 
anything to me what humor the coffee may be in. I will 
be Donal Grant, whether the coffee be cold or hot. A 
bit of practical philosophy for you, Davie!” 

“I think I understand you, sir: you would not have a 
man make a fuss about a trifle.” 

“Not about a real trifle. The corelative of a trifle, 


DGNAL GRANT. 


167 


Davie, is a smile. But I would take heed whether the 
thing that is called a trifle be really a trifle. Besides, 
there may be a point in a trifle that is the egg of an 
ought. It is a trifle whether this or that is nice; it is a 
point that I should not care. With us Highlanders it is a 
point of breeding not to mind what sort of dinner we 
have, but to eat as heartily of bread and cheese as of roast 
beef. At least so my father and mother used to teach 
me, though I fear that refinement of good manners is 
going out of fashion even with Highlanders.” 

“It is good manners!” rejoined Davie with decision, 
“and more than good manners! I should count it grand 
not to care what kind of dinner I had. But I am afraid 
it is more than I shall ever come to!” 

“You will never come to it by trying because you think 
it grand. Only mind, I did not say we were not to enjoy 
our roast beef more than our bread and cheese; that 
would be not to discriminate where there is a difference. 
If bread and cheese were just as good to us as roast beef, 
there would be no victory in our contentment.” 

“I see!” said Davie. “Wouldn’t it be well,” he asked, 
after a moment’s pause, “to put one’s self in training, 
Mr. Grant, to do without things — or at least to be able to 
do without them?” 

“It is much better to do the lessons set you by one who 
knows how to teach than to pick lessons for yourself out 
of your books. Davie, I have not that confidence in my- 
self to think I should be a good teacher of myself.” 

“But you are a good teacher of me,' sir!” 

“I try — but then I’m set to teach you, and I am not set 
to teach myself: I am only set to make myself do what I 
am taught. W T hen you are my teacher, Davie, I try — 
don’t I — to do everything you tell me?” 

“Yes, indeed, sir!” 

“But I am not set to obey myself!” 

“No, nor any one else, sir! You do not need to obey 
any one, or have any one teach you, sir!” 

“Oh, don’t I, Davie! On the contrary, I could not get 
on for one solitary moment without somebody to teach 
me. Look you here, Davie: I have so many lessons given 
me that I have no time or need to add to them any of 
mv own. If you were to ask the cook to let you have a 
cold dinner, you would perhaps eat it with pride, and 


168 


DONAL GRANT. 


take credit for what your hunger yet made quite agreeable 
to you. But the boy who does not grumble when he is 
told not to go out because it is raining and he has a cold 
will not perhaps grumble either should he happen to find 
his dinner not at all nice.” 

Davie hung his head. It had been a very small grum- 
ble, but there are no sins for which there is less reason or 
less excuse than small ones: in no sense are they worth 
committing. And we grown people commit many more 
such than little children, and have our reward in childish- 
ness instead of childlikeness. 

“It is so easy,” continued Donal, “to do the thing we 
ordain ourselves, for in holding to it we make ourselves 
out fine fellows! — and that is such a mean kind of thing! 
Then when another who has the right lays a thing upon 
us, we grumble — though it he the truest and kindest 
thing, and the most reasonable and needful for us — even 
for our dignity — for our being worth anything! Depend 
upon it, Davie, to do what we are told is a far grander 
thing than to lay the severest rules upon ourselves — ay, 
and to stick to them, too!” 

“But might there not be something good for us to do 
that we were not told of?” 

“Whoever does the thing he is told to do — the thing, 
that is, that has a plain ought in it, will become satisfied 
that there is one who will not forget to tell him what 
must be done as soon as he is fit to do it.” 

The conversation lasted only while Donal ate his break- 
fast, with tho little fellow standing beside him; it was 
soon over, but not soon to be forgotten. For the readi- 
ness of the boy to do what his master told him was beau- 
tiful — and a great help and comfort, sometimes a rousing 
rebuke to his master, whose thoughts would yet occasion- 
ally tumble into one of the pitfalls of sorrow. 

“What!” he would say to himself, “am I so believed in 
by this child that he goes at once to do my words, and 
shall I for a moment doubt the heart of the Father, or 
his power or will to set right whatever may have - seemed 
to go wrong with his child! Go on, Davie! You are a 
good boy; I will be a better man!” 

But naturally, as soon as lessons were over, he fell again 
to thinking what could have befallen him the night be- 
fore. At what point did the aberration begin? The earl 


DONAL GRANT. 


169 


must have taken notice of it, for surely Simmons had not 
given Davie those injunctions of himself — except indeed 
he had exposed his condition even to him! If the earl 
had spoken to Simmons, kindness seemed intended him; 
but it might have been merely care over the boy! Any- 
how, what was to be done? 

He did not ponder the matter long. With that direct- 
ness which was one of the most marked features of his 
nature, he resolved at once to request an interview with 
the earl, and make his apologies. He sought Simmons, 
therefore, and found him in the pantry rubbing up the 
forks and spoons. 

“Ah, Mr. Grant, ” he said, before Donal could speak, 
“I was just coming to you with a message from his lord- 
ship! He wants to see you.” 

“And I came to you,” replied Donal, “to say I wanted 
to see his lordship!” 

“That’s well fitted, then, sir!” returned Simmons. “I 
will go and see when. His lordship is not up, nor likely 
to be for some hours yet; he is in one of his low fits this 
morning. He told me you were not quite yourself last 
night.” 

As he spoke his red nose seemed to examine Donal’s 
face with a kindly, but not altogether sympathetic 
scrutiny. 

“The fact is, Simmons,” answered Donal, “not being 
used to wine, I fear I drank more of his lordship’s than 
was good for me.” 

“His lordship’s wine,” murmured Simmons, and there 
checked himself. “How much did you drink, sir — if I 
may make so bold?” 

“I had one glass during dinner, and more than one, but 
not nearly two, after.” 

“Pooh! pooh, sir! That could never hurt a strong man 
like you! You ought to know better than that! Look at 
me!” 

But he did not go on with his illustration. 

“Tut!” he resumed, “that make you sleep till ten 
o’clock! If you will kindly wait in the hall or in the 
schoolroom, I will bring you his lordship’s orders.” 

So saying while he washed his hands and took off his 
white apron, Simmons departed on his errand to his mas- 
ter. Donal went to the foot of the grand staircase and 
there waited. 


170 


DONAL GRANT. 


As he stood he heard a light step above him, and invol- 
untarily glancing up, saw the light shape of Lady Arctura 
come round the curve of the spiral stair, descending rather 
slowly and very softly* as if her feet were thinking. She 
checked herself for an infinitesimal moment, then moved 
on again. Donal stood with bended head as she passed. 
If she acknowledged his obeisance it was with the slightest 
return, but she lifted her eyes to his face with a look that 
seemed to have in it a strange, wistful trouble — not very 
marked, yet notable. She passed on and vanished, leav- 
ing that look a lingering presence in Donal’s thought. 
What was it? Was it anything? What could it mean? 
Had he really seen it? Was it there, or had he only 
imagined it? 

Simmons kept him waiting a good while. He had 
found his lordship getting up, and had had to stay to help 
him dress. At length he came, excusing himself that his 
lordship’s temper at such tunes — that was, in his dumpy 
fits — were not of the evenest, and required a gentle hand. 
But his lordship would see him — and could Mr. Grant 
find the way himself? for his old bones ached with run- 
ning up and down those endless stone steps. Donal an- 
swered he knew the way, and sprang up the stair. 

But his mind was more occupied with the coming inter- 
view than with the way to it, which caused him to take a 
wrong turn after leaving the stair: he had a good gift in 
space* relations, but instinct was here not so keen as on a 
hillside. The consequence was that he found himself in 
the picture-gallery. 

A strange feeling of pain, as at the presence of a condi- 
tion he did not wish to encourage, awoke in him at the 
discovery. He walked along, however, thus taking, he 
thought, the readiest way to his lordship’s apartment; 
either he would find him in his bedroom, or could go 
through that to his sitting-room. He glanced at the pic- 
tures he passed, and seemed, strange to say, though, so 
far as he knew, he had never been in the place except in 
the dark, to recognize some of them as belonging to the 
stuff of the dream in which he had been wandering 
through the night — only that was a glowing and gorgeous 
dream, whereas the pictures were even commonplace! 
Here was something to be meditated upon — but for the 
present postponed! His lordship was expecting him! 


DONAL GRANT 


171 


Arrived, as he thought, at the door of the earl’s bed- 
room, he knocked, and receiving no answer, opened it, 
and found himself in a narrow passage. Nearly opposite 
was another door, partly open, and hearing a movement 
within, he ventured to knock there. A voice he knew at 
once to be Lady Arctura’s invited him to enter. It was 
an old, lonely, gloomy little room, in which sat the lady 
writing. It had but one low lattice-window, to the west, 
but a fire blazed cheerfully in the old-fashioned giate. 
She looked up, nor showed more surprise than if he had 
been a servant she had rung for. 

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said: “my lord 
wished to see me, but I have lost my way.” 

“I will show it you,” she answered, and rising came to 
him. 

She led him along the winding narrow passage, pointed 
out to him the door of his lordship’s sitting-room, and 
turned away — again, Donal could not help thinking, with 
a look as of some anxiety about him. 

He knocked, and the voice of the earl bade him enter. 

His lordship was in his dressing-gown, on a couch of 
faded satin of a gold color, against which his pale yellow 
face looked cadaverous. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Grant!” he said. “I am glad to 
see you better!” 

“I thank you, my lord,” returned Donal. “I have to 
make an apology. I cannot understand how it was, ex- 
cept, perhaps, that, being so little accustomed to strong 
drink ” 

“There is not the smallest occasion to say a word,” 
interrupted his lordship. “You did not once forget your- 
self, or cease to behave like a gentleman!” 

“Your lordship is very kind. Still I cannot help being 
sorry. I shall take good care in the future.” 

“It might be as well,” conceded the earl, “to set your- 
self a limit — necessarily in your case a narrow one. Some 
constitutions are so immediately responsive!” he added 
in a murmur. “The least exhibition of — But a man like 
you, Mr. Grant,” he went on aloud, “will always know 
to take care of himself!” 

“Sometimes, apparently, when it is too late!” rejoined 
Donal. “But I must not annoy your lordship with any 
further expression of my regret!” 


172 


DONAL QUANT. 


“Will you dine with me to-night?” said the earl. “I 
am lonely now. Sometimes, for months together, I feel 
no need of a companion: my books and pictures content 
me. All at once a longing for society will seize me, and 
that longing my health will not permit me to indulge. I 
am not by nature unsociable — much the contrary. You 
may wonder I do not admit my own family more freely; 
but my wretched health makes me shrink from loud voices 
and abrupt motions.” 

“But Lady Arctura!” thought Donah “Your lordship 
will find me a poor substitute, I fear,” he said, “for the 
society you would like. But I am at your lordship’s 
service.” 

He could not help turning with a moment’s longing 
and regret to his tower-nest and the company of his books 
and thoughts; but he did not feel that he had a choice. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE SECOND DINNER WITH THE EARL. 

He went as before, conducted by the butler, and for- 
mally announced. To his surprise, with the earl was 
Lady Arctura. His lordship made him give her his arm, 
and followed. 

This was to Donal a very different dinner from that of 
the evening before. Whether the presence of his niece 
made the earl rouse himself to be agreeable, or he had 
grown better since the morning and his spirits had risen, 
certainly he was not like the same man. He talked in a 
rather forced playful way, but told two or three good 
stories; described with vivacity some of the adventures of 
his youth; spoke of several great men he had met; and 
in short was all that could be desired in a host. Donal 
took no wine during dinner, the earl as before took very 
little, and Lady Arctura none.. She listened respectfully 
to her uncle’s talk, and was attentive when Donal spoke; 
he thought she looked even sympathetic two or three 
times; and once he caught the expression as of anxiety he 
had seen on her face that same day twice before. It was 
strange, too, he thought, that, not seeing her sometimes 
for a week together, he should thus meet her three times 


DONAL GRANT. 


173 


in one day. When the last of the dinner was removed 
and the wine placed on the table, Donal thought his lord- 
ship looked as if he expected his niece to go; but she kept 
her place. He asked her which wine she would have, but 
she declined any. He filled his glass, and pushed the 
decanter to Donal. He too filled his glass and drank 
slowly. 

The talk revived. But Donal could not help fancying 
that the eye of the lady now and then sought his with a 
sort of question in them — almost as if she feared some- 
thing was going to happen to him. He attributed this to 
her having heard that he took too much wine the night 
before. The situation was unpleasant. He must, how- 
ever, brave it out! When he refused a second glass, 
which the earl by no means pressed, he thought he saw 
her look relieved; but more than once thereafter he saw, 
or fancied he saw, her glance at him with that expression 
of slight anxiety. 

In its course the talk fell upon sheep, and Donal was 
relating some of his experiences with them and their dogs, 
greatly interested in the subject; when all at once, just 
as before, something seemed to burst in his head, and 
immediately, although he knew he was sitting at table 
with the earl and Lady Arctura, he was uncertain whether 
he was not at the same time upon the side of a lonely hill, 
closed in a magic night of high summer, his woolly and 
hairy friends lying all about him, and a light glimmering 
faintly on the heather a little way off, which he knew for 
the flame that marks for a moment the footstep of an 
angel when he touches ever so lightly the solid earth. 
He seemed to be reading the thoughts of his sheep around 
him, yet all the time went on talking, and knew he was 
talking, with the earl and the lady. 

After awhile, everything was changed. He was no 
longer either with his sheep or his company. He was 
alone, and walking swiftly through and beyond the park, 
in a fierce wind from the northeast, battling with it, and 
ruling it like a fiery horse. By and by came a hoarse, 
terrible music, which he knew for the thunderous beats of 
the waves on the low shore, yet imagined issuing from an 
indescribable instrument, gigantic and grotesque. He 
felt it first— through his feet, as one feels without hearing 
the tones of an organ for which the building is too small 


174 


LONAL GRANT. 


to allow scope to their vibration; the waves made the 
ground beat against the soles of his feet as he walked ; but 
soon he heard it like the infinitely prolonged roaring of a 
sky-built organ. It was drawing him to the sea, whether 
in the body or out of the body he knew not: he was but 
conscious of forms of existence: whether those forms had 
relation to things outside him, or whether they belonged 
only to the world within him, he was unaware. The roar- 
ing of the great water organ grew louder and louder. He 
knew every step of the way to the shore — across the fields 
and over fences and stiles. He turned this way and that, to 
avoid here a ditch, there a deep sandy patch. And still 
the music grew louder and louder — and at length came 
in his face the driving spray: it was the flying touch of 
the wings on wnich the tones went hurrying past into the 
depths of awful distance! His feet were now wading 
through the bent tufted sand, with the hard, bare, wave- 
beaten sand in front of him. Through the dark he could 
see the white fierceness of the hurrying waves as they 
rushed to the shore, then leaning, toppling, curling, self- 
undermined, hurled forth at once all the sound that was 
in them in a falling roar of defeat. Every wave was a 
complex chord, with winnowed tones feathering it round. 
He paced up and down the sand — it seemed for ages. 
Why he paced there he did not know — why always he 
turned and went back instead of going on. 

Suddenly he thought he saw something dark in the 
hollow of a wave that swept to its fall. The moon came 
out as it broke, and the something was rolled in the surf 
up the shore. Donal stood watching it. Why should he 
move? What was it to him? The next wave would re- 
claim it for the ocean! It looked lik.e the body of a man, 
but what did it matter? Many such were tossed in the 
hollows of that music! 

But something came back to him out of the ancient 
years: in the ages gone by men did what they could! 
There was a word they used then: they said men ought to 
do this or that! This body might not be dead — or dead, 
some one might like to have it! He rushed into the 
water, and caught it — ere the next wave broke, though 
hours of cogitation, ratiocination, recollection, seemed to 
have intervened. The breaking wave drenched him from 
head to foot; he clung to his prize and dragged it out. 


DONAL GRANT. 


175 


A moment’s bewilderment, and he came to himself lying 
on the sand, his arms round a great lump of net, lost from 
some fishing-boat. 

His illusions were gone. He was sitting in a cold wind, 
wet to the skin, on the border of a wild sea. A poor, 
shivering, altogether ordinary and uncomfortable mortal, 
he sat on the shore of the German Ocean, from which he 
had rescued a tangled mass of net and seaweed! He 
dragged it beyond reach of the waves, and set out for 
home. 

By the time he reached the castle he was quite warm. 
His door at the foot of the tower was open; he crept up, 
and was soon fast asleep. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE HOUSEKEEPER’S ROOM. 

He was not so late the next morning. 

Ere he had finished his breakfast he had made up his 
mind that he must beware of the earl. He was satisfied 
that the experiences of the past night could not be the 
consequence of one glass of wine. If he asked him again, 
he would go to dinner with him, but would drink nothing 
but water. 

School was just over when Simmons came from his lord- 
ship, to inquire after him, and invite him to dine with 
him that evening. Donal immediately consented. 

This time Lady Arctura was not with the earl. 

After as during dinner Donal declined to drink. His 
lordship cast on him a keen, searching glance, but it was 
only a glance, and took no further notice of his refusal. 
The conversation, however, which had not been brilliant 
from the first, now sank and sank till it was not; and 
after a cup of coffee, his lordship, remarking that he was 
not feeling himself, begged Donal to excuse him, and pro- 
ceeded to retire. Donal rose, and with a hope that his 
lordship would have a good night and feel better in the 
morning, left the room. 

The passage outside was lighted only by a rather dim 
lamp, and in the distance Donal saw what he could but 
distinguish as the form of a woman, standing by the door 


176 


DONAL GRANT. 


which opened upon the great staircase. He supposed it 
at first to be one of the maids; but the servants were so 
few compared with the size of the castle that one was sel- 
dom to be met on stair or in passage; and besides, the 
form stood as if waiting for some one! As he drew 
nearer, he saw it was Lady Arctura, and would have 
passed with an obeisance. But ere he could lay his hand 
on the lock, hers was there to prevent him. He then 
saw that she was agitated, and that she had stopped him 
thus because her voice had at the moment failed her. 
The next moment, however, she recovered -it, and her 
self-possession as well. 

“Mr. Grant, ” she said in a low voice, “I wish to speak 
to you — if you will allow me.” 

“I am at your service, my lady,” answered Donal. 

“But we cannot here! My uncle ” 

“Shall we go into the picture-gallery?” suggested 
Donal; “there is moonlight there.” 

“Ho; that would be still nearer my uncle. His hear- 
ing is sometimes preternaturally keen; and besides, as 
you know, he often walks there after his evening meal. 
But — excuse me, Mr. Grant — you will understand me 
presently — are you — are you quite — — ” 

“You mean, my lady — am I quite myself this evening!’’ 
said Donal, wishing to help her with the embarrassing 
question. “I have drunk nothing but water to-night.” 

With that she opened the door and descended the stair, 
he following; but as soon as the curve of the staircase hid 
the door they had left, she stopped, and turning to him 
said : 

“I would not have you mistake me, Mr. Grant! I 
should be ashamed to speak to you if ” 

“Indeed I am very sorry!” said Donal, “though hardly 
so much to blame as I fear you think me.” 

“You mistake me at once! You suppose I imagine you 
took too much wine last night! It would be absurd. I 
saw what you took. But we must not talk here. Come.” 

She turned again, and going down, led the way to the 
housekeeper’s room. 

They found her at work with her needle. 

“Mistress Brookes,” said Lady Arctura, “I want to 
have a little talk with Mr. Grant, and there is no fire in 
the library: may we sit here?” 


DONAL GRANT. 


177 


“By all means! Sit doon, my lady! Why, bairn! yon 
look as cold as if you had been on the roof! There! sit 
close to the fire; you’re all trem’lin’!” 

Lady Arctura obeyed like the child Mrs. Brookes called 
her, and sat down in the chair she gave up to her. 

“I’ve something to see efter i’ the still-room,” said the 
housekeeper. “You sit here and hae yer crack. Sit 
doon, Mr. Grant. I’m glad to see you an’ my lady come 
to word o’ mooth at last. I began to think it wud never 
be!” 

Had Donal been in the way of looking to faces for the 
interpretation of words and thoughts, he would have seen 
a shadow sweep over Lady Arctura’s, followed by a flush, 
which he would have attributed to displeasure at this 
utterance of the housekeeper. But, with all his experi- 
ence of the world within, and all his unusually developed 
power of entering into the feelings of others, he had never 
come to pry into those feelings or to study their phenom- 
ena for the sake of possessing himself of them. Man 
was by no means an open book to him — “no, nor woman 
neither,” but he would have scorned to supplement by 
such investigation what a lady chose to tell him. He sat 
looking into the fire, with an occasional upward glance, 
waiting for what was to come, and saw neither shadow 
nor flush. Lady Arctura sat also gazing into the fire, and 
seemed in no haste to begin. 

“You are so good to Davie!” she said at length, and 
stopped. 

“No better than I have to be,” returned Donal. “Not 
to be good to Davie would be to be a wretch.” 

“You know, Mr. Grant, I cannot agree with you!” 

“There is no immediate necessity, my lady.” 

“But I suppose one may be fair to another!” she went 
on doubtingly, “and it is only fair to confess that he is 
much more manageable since you came. Only that is no 
good if it does not come from the right source.” 

“Grapes do not come from thorns, my lady. We must 
not allow in evil a power of good.” 

She did not reply. 

“He minds everything I say to him now,” she resumed. 
“What is it makes him so good? I wish I had had such a 
tutor!” 

She stopped again: she had spoken out of the simplicity 


178 


DONAL GRANT. 


of her thought, but the words when said looked to her as 
if they ought not to have been said. 

“Something is working in her!” thought Donal. “She 
is so different! Her voice is different!” 

“But that is not what I wanted to speak to you about, 
Mr. Grant,” she recommenced, “though I did want you 
to know I was aware of the improvement in Davie. I 
wished to say something about my uncle.” 

Here followed another pause. 

“You may have remarked,” she said at length, “that 
though we live together, and he is my guardian, and the 
head of the house, there is not much, communication be- 
tween us.” 

“I have gathered as much: I ask no questions, but I 
cannot tell Davie not to talk to me!” 

“Of course not. Lord Morven is a strange man. I do 
not understand him, and I do not want to judge him, or 
make you judge him. But I must speak of a fact con- 
cerning yourself which I have no right to keep from 
you.” 

Once more a pause followed. There was nothing now 
of the grand dame about Arctura. 

“Has nothing occurred to wake a doubt in you?” she 
said at last abruptly. “Have you not suspected him of— 
of using you in any way?” 

“I have had an undefined ghost of a suspicion,” an- 
swered Donal. “Please tell me what you know.” 

“I should know nothing — although, my room being 
near his, I should have been the more perplexed about 
some things — had he not made an experiment upon my- 
self a year ago.” 

“Is it possible!” 

“I sometimes fancy I have not been so well since. It 
was a great shock to me when I came to myself — you see 
I am trusting you, Mr. Grant!” 

“I thank you heartily, my lady,” said Donal. 

“I believe,” continued Lady Arctura, gathering cour- 
age, “that my uncle is in the habit of taking some horri- 
ble drug for the sake of its effect on his brain. There are 
people who do so! What it is I don’t know, and I would 
rather not know. It is just as bad, surely, as taking too 
much wine! I have heard himself remark to Mr. Car- 
michael that opium was worse than wine, for it destroyed 


DONAL GRANT. 


179 


the moral sense more. Mind I don’t say it is opium he 
takes!’ 5 

“There are other things,” said Donal, “even worse! 
But surely you do not mean he dared try anything of the 
sort on you!” 

“I am sure he gave me something! For, once that I 
dined with him — but I cannot describe the effect it had 
upon me! I think he wanted to see its operation on one 
who dil not even know she had taken anything. The 
influence of such things is a pleasant one, they say, at 
first, but I would not go through such agonies as I had 
for the world!” 

She ceased, evidently troubled by the harassing remem- 
brance. Donal hastened to speak. 

“It was because of such a suspicion, my lady, that this 
evening I would not even taste his wine. I am safe to- 
night, I trust, from the insanity — I can call it nothing 
else — that possessed me the last two nights!” 

“Was it very dreadful?” asked Lady Arctura. 

“On the contrary, I had a sense of life and power such 
as I could never of myself have imagined!” 

“Oh, Mr. Grant, do take care! Do not be tempted to 
take it again. I don’t know where it might not have led 
me if I had found it as pleasant as it was horrible; for I 
am sorely tried with painful thoughts, and feel sometimes 
as if I would do almost anything to get rid of them.” 

“There must be a good way of getting rid of them! 
Think it of God’s mercy,” said Donal, “that you cannot 
get rid of theih the other way.” 

“I do;. I do!” 

“The shield of his presence was over you.” 

“How glad I should be to think so! But we have no 
right to think he cares for us till we believe in Christ — 
and — and — I don’t know that I do believe in him!” 

“Wherever you learned that, it is a terrible lie,” said 
Donal. “Is not Christ the same always, and is he* not of 
one mind with God? Was it not while we were yet sin- 
ners that he poured out his soul for us? It is a fearful 
thing to say of the perfect Love, that he is not doing all 
he can, with all the power of a maker over the creature 
he has made, to help and deliver him!” 

“I know he makes his sun to shine and his rain to fall 
upon the evil and the good; but those good things are 
only of this wdrld!” 


180 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Are those the good things then that the Lord says the 
Father will give to those that ask him? How can yon wor- 
ship a God who gives you all the little things he does not 
care much about, but will not do his best for you?” 

“But are there not things he cannot do for us till we 
believe in Christ?” 

“Certainly there are. But what I want you to see is 
that he does all that can be done. He finds it very hard 
to teach us, but he is never tired of trying. Any one who 
is willing to be taught of God will by him be taught, and 
thoroughly taught.” 

“I am afraid I am doing wrong in listening to you, Mr. 
Grant — and the more that I cannot help wishing what you 
say might be true! But are you not in danger — you will 
pardon me for saying it — of presumption? How can all 
the good people be wrong?” 

“Because the greater part of their teachers have set 
themselves to explain God rather than to obey and enforce 
his will. The gospel is given to convince, not our under- 
standings, but our hearts; that done, and never till then, 
our understandings will be free. Our Lord said he had 
many things to tell his disciples, but they were not able 
to hear them. If the things be true which I have heard 
from Sunday to Sunday since I came here, the Lord has 
brought us no salvation at all, but only a change of shape 
to our miseries. They have not redeemed you, Lady 
Arctura, and never will. Nothing but Christ himself, 
your lord and friend and brother, not all the doctrines 
about him, even if every one of them were true, can save 
you. Poor orphan children, we cannot find our God, and 
they would have us take instead a shocking caricature of 
him!” 

“But how should sinners know what is or is not like 
the true God?” 

“If a man desires God, he cannot help knowing enough 
of him to be capable of learning more — else how should 
he desire him? Made in the image of God, his idea of 
him cannot be all wrong. That does not make him fit to 
teach others — only fit to go on learning for himself. But 
in Jesus Christ I see the very God I want. I want a 
father like him. He reproaches some of those about him 
for not knowing him — for, if they had known God, they 
would have known him: they were to blame for not know- 


DONAL GRANT. 


181 


ing God. No other than the God exactly like Christ can 
be the true God. It is a doctrine of devils that Jesus died 
to save us from our Father. There is no safety no good, no 
gladness, no purity, but with the Father, his Father and 
our Father, his God and our God.” 

“But God hates sin and punishes it 

“It would be terrible if he did not. All hatred of sin 
is love to the sinner. Do you think Jesus came to deliver 
us from the punishment of our sins? He would not have 
moved a step for that. The horrible thing is being bad, 
and all punishment is help to deliver us from that, nor 
will punishment cease till we have ceased to be bad. God 
will have us good, and Jesus works out the will of his 
Father. Wheie is the refuge of the child who fears his 
father? Is it in the furthest corner of the room? Is it 
down in the dungeon of the castle, my lady?” 

“No, no!” cried Lady Arctura; “in his father’s arms!” 

“There!” said Donal, and was silent. 

“I hold by Jesus!” he added after a pause, and rose as 
he said it, but stood where he rose. 

Lady Arctura sat motionless, divided between reverence 
for distorted and false forms of truth taught her from her 
earliest years, and desire after a God whose very being is 
the bliss of his creatures. 

Some time passed in silence, and then she too rose to 
depart. She held out her hand to Donal with a kind of 
irresolute motion, but withdrawing it, smiled almost be- 
seechingly, and said: 

“I wish I might ask you something. I know it is a 
rude question, but if you could see all, you would answer 
me and let the offense go.” 

“I will answer you anything you choose to ask.” 

“That makes it the more difficult; but I will — I cannot 
bear to remain longer in doubt: did you really write that 
poem you gave to Kate Graeme — compose it, I mean, 
your own self?” 

“I made no secret of that when I gave it her,” said 
Donal, not perceiving her drift. 

“Then you did really write it?” 

Donal looked at her in perplexity. Her face grew very 
red, and tears began to come in her eyes. 

“You must pardon me!” she said: “I am so ignorant! 
And we live in such an out-of-the-way place that — that it 


182 


DONAL GRANT. 


seems very unlikely a real poet — • And then I have been 
told there are people who have a passion for appearing to 
do the thing they are not able to do, and I was anxions to 
be quite sure! My mind would keep brooding over it, 
and wondering, and longing to know for certain! So I 
resolved at last that I would be rid of the doubt, even at 
the risk of offending you. I know I have been rude — 
unpardonably rude, but ” 

“But,” supplemented Donal, with a most sympathetic 
smile, for he understood her as his own thought; “you do 
not feel quite sure yet! What a priori reason do you see 
why I should not be able to write verses? There is no 
rule as to where poetry grows: one place is as good as an- 
other for that!” 

“I hope you will forgive me! I hope I have not 
offended you very much!” 

“Nobody in such a world as this ought to be offended 
at being asked for proof. If there are in it rogues that 
look like honest men, how is any one, without a special 
gift of insight, to be always sure of the honest man? 
Even the man whom a woman loves best will sometimes 
tear her heart to pieces! I will give you all the proof you 
can desire. And lest the tempter should say I made up 
the proof itself between now and to-morrow morning, I 
will fetch it at once.” 

“Oh, Mr. Grant, spare me! I am not, indeed, I am 
not so bad as that!” 

“Who can tell when or whence the doubt may wake 
again, or what may wake it?” 

“At least let me explain a little before you go,” she 
said. 

“Certainly,” he answered, reseating himself, in com- 
pliance with her example. 

“Miss Graeme told me that you had never seen a garden 
like theirs before!” 

“I never did. There are none such, I fancy, in our 
part of the country.” 

“Nor in our neighborhood either.” 

“Then what is surprising in it?” 

“Nothing in that. But is there not something surpris- 
ing in your being able to write a poem like that about a 
garden such as you had never seen? One would say you 
must have been familiar with it from childhood to be able 
so to enter into the spirit of the place!” 


DONAL GRANT. 


183 


“Perhaps if I had been familiar with it from childhood, 
that might have disabled me from feeling the spirit of it, 
for then might it not have looked to me as it looked to 
those in whose times such gardens were the fashion? Two 
things are necessary — first, that there should be a spirit 
in a place, and next that the place should be seen by one 
whose spirit is capable of giving house-room to its spirit. 
By the way, does the ghost-lady feel the place all right ?” 

“I am not sure that I know what you mean; hut I felt 
the grass with her feet as I read, and the wind lifting my 
hair. I seemed to know exactly how she felt 

“Now tell me, were you ever a ghost?” 

“No,” she answered, looking in his face like a child — 
without even a smile. 

“Did you ever see a ghost?” 

“No, never.” 

“Then how should you know how a ghost would feel?” 

“I see! I cannot answer you.” 

Donal rose. 

“I am indeed ashamed!” said Lady Arctura. 

“Ashamed of giving me the chance of proving myself a 
true man?” 

“That, at least, is no longer necessary!” 

“But I want my revenge. As a punishment for doubt- 
ing one whom you had so little ground for believing, you 
shall be compelled to see the proof — that is, if you will do 
me the favor to wait here till I come back. I shall not be 
long, though it is some distance to the top of BalioPs 
Tower.” 

“Davie told me your room was there; do you not find 
it cold? It must be very lonely! I wonder why Mistress 
Brookes put you there!” 

Donal assured her he could not have had a place more 
to his mind, and before she could well think he had 
reached the foot of his stair, was back with a roll of papers, 
which he laid on the table. 

“There!” he said, opening it out; “if you will take the 
trouble to go over these, you may read the growth of the 
poem. Here first you see it blocked out rather roughly, 
and much blotted with erasures and substitutions. Here 
next you see the result copied-— clean to begin with, but 
afterward scored and scored. You see the words I chose 
instead of the first, and afterward in their turn rejected, 


184 


DONAL GRANT. 


until in the proofs I reached those which I have as yet let 
stand. I do not fancy Miss Graeme has any doubt the 
verses are mine, for it was plain she thought them rub- 
bish. From your pains to know who wrote them, I be- 
lieve you do not think so badly of them!” 

She thought he was satirical, and gave a slight sigh as 
of pain. It went to his heart. 

“I did not mean the smallest reflection, my lady, on 
your desire for satisfaction,” he said; “rather, indeed, it 
flatters me. But is it not strange the heart should be less 
ready to believe what seems worth believing? Something 
must be true: why not the worthy — oftener at least than 
the unworthy? Why should it be easier to believe hard 
things of God, for instance, than lovely things? — or that 
one man copied from another, than that he should have 
made the thing himself? Some would yet say I contrived 
all this semblance of composition in order to lay the surer 
claim to that to which I had none — nor would take the 
trouble to follow the thing through its development! But 
it will be easy for you, my lady, and no bad exercise in 
logic and analysis, to determine whether the genuine 
growth of the poem be before you in these papers or not.” 

“I shall find it most interesting,” said Lady Arctura: 
“so much I can tell already! I never saw anything of the 
kind before, and had no idea how poetry was made. Does 
it always take so much labor?” 

“Some verses take much more; some none at all. The 
labor is in getting the husks of expression cleared off, so 
that the thought may show itself plainly.” 

At this point Mrs. Brookes, thinking probably the 
young people had had long enough conference, entered, 
and after a little talk with her, Lady Arctura kissed her 
and hade her good-night. Donal retired to his aerial 
chamber, wondering whether the lady of the house 
had indeed changed as much as she seemed to have 
changed. 

From that time, whether it was that Lady Arctura had 
previously avoided meeting him and now did not, or from 
other causes, Donal and she met much oftener as they 
went about the place; nor did they ever pass without a 
mutual smile and greeting. 

The next day but one, she brought him his papers to 
the schoolroom. She had read every erasure and correc- 


DONAL GRANT. 


185 


tion, she told him, and could no longer have had a doubt 
that the writer of the papers was the maker of the verses, 
even had she not previously learned thorough confidence 
in the man himself. 

“They would possibly fail to convince a jury, though, ” 
he said as he rose and went to throw them in the fire. 

Divining his intent, Arctura darted after him, and 
caught them just in time. 

“Let me keep them,” she pleaded, “for my humilia- 
tion !” 

“Do with them what you like, my lady,” said Donal. 
“They are of no value to me — except that you care for 
them.” 


CHAPTER XXX1Y. 

COBBLER AND CASTLE. 

In the bosom of the family in which the elements seem 
most kindly mixed, there may yet lie some root of discord 
and disruption upon which the foreign influence necessary 
to its appearance above ground has not yet come to oper- 
ate. That things are quiet is no proof, only a hopeful 
sign of harmony. In a family of such poor accord as that 
at the castle, the peace might well at any moment be 
broken. 

Lord Forgue had been for some time on a visit to Edin- 
burgh, had doubtless there been made much of, and had 
returned with a considerable development of haughtiness, 
and of that freedom which means subjugation to self, and 
freedom from the law of liberty. It is often when a man 
is least satisfied — not with himself, but with his imme- 
diate doings — that he is most ready to assert his superior- 
ity to the restraints he might formerly have grumbled 
against, but had not dared to dispute — and to claim from 
others such consideration as accords with a false idea of 
his personal standing. But for awhile Donal and he 
barely saw each other; Donal had no occasion to regard 
him; and Lord Forgue kept so much to himself that 
Davie made lamentation: Percy was not half so jolly as 
he used to be! 

For a fortnight Eppy had not been to see her grand- 
parents; and as the last week something had prevented 


186 


DONAL GRANT. 


Donal also from paying them his customary visit, the old 
people had naturally become uneasy; and one frosty twi- 
light, when the last of the sunlight had turned to cold 
green in the west, Andrew Oomin appeared in the castle 
kitchen, asking to see Mistress Brookes. He was kindly 
received by the servants, among whom Eppy was not 
present; and Mrs. Brookes, who had a genuine respect 
for the cobbler, soon came to greet him. She told him 
she knew no reason why Eppy had not gone to inquire 
after them as usual: she would send for her, she said, and 
left the kitchen. 

Eppy was not at the moment to be found, but Donal, 
whom Mistress Brookes had gone herself to seek, went at 
once to the kitchen. 

“Will you come out a bit, Andrew/’ he said, “if you’re 
not tired? It’s a fine night, and it’s easy to talk in the 
gloamin’!” 

Andrew consented with alacrity. 

On the side of the castle away from the town, the de- 
scent was at first by a succession of terraces with steps 
from the one to the other, the terraces themselves being 
little flower-gardens. At the bottom of the last of these 
terraces and parallel with them was a double row of trees, 
forming a long narrow avenue between two little doors in 
two walls at opposite ends of the castle. One of these led 
to some of the offices; the other admitted to a fruit-gar- 
den which turned the western shoulder of the hill, and 
found for the greater part a nearly southern exposure. 
At this time of the year it was a lonely enough place, and 
at this time of the day more than likely to be altogether 
deserted: thither Donal would lead his friend. Going 
out therefore by the kitchen door, they went first into a. 
stable-yard, from which descended steps to the castle-well, 
on the level of the second terrace. Thence they arrived, 
by more steps, at the mews where in old times the hawks 
were kept, now rather ruinous though not quite neglected. 
Here the one wall-door opened on the avenue which led to 
the other. It was one of the pleasantest walks in imme- 
diate proximity to the castle. 

The first of the steely stars were shining through the 
naked rafters of leafless boughs overhead as Donal and 
the cobbler stepped, gently talking, into the aisle of trees. 
The old man looked up, gazed for a moment in silence, 
and said ; 


DGNAL GRANT. 


187 


“ ‘The heavens declare the glory o’ God, an’ the firma- 
ment showetb his handiwork.’ I used, whan I was a lad, 
to study astronomy a wee, i’ the houp o’ better hearin’ 
what the h’avens declared aboot the glory o’ God: I wild 
fain un’erstan’ the speech ae day cried across the nicht to 
the ither. But I was sair disapp’intit. The things the 
astronomer tellt semple fowk war verra won’erfu’, but I 
couldna fin’ i’ ray hert ’at they made me think ony mair 
o’ God nor I did afore. I dinna mean to say they michtna 
be competent to work that in anither, but it wasna my 
experrience o’ them. My hert was some sair at this, for 
ye see I was set upo’ winnin’ intil the presence o’ Him I 
couldna bide frae, an’ at that time I hadna learned to 
gang straucht to him wha’s the express image o’ ’s person, 
hut aye soucht him throuw the philosophy — eh, but it was 
bairnly philosophy! — o’ the guid buiks ’at dwall upo’ the 
natur’ o’ God an’ a’ that, an’ his hatred o' sin an’ a’ that 
— pairt an’ pairt true, nae doobt! but I wantit God great 
an’ near, an’ they made him oot sma’, sma’, an’ unco’ 
far awa’. Ae nicht I way oot by mysel’ upo’ the shore, 
jist as the stars war teetin’ oot. An’ it wasna as gien 
they war feart o’ the sun, an’ pleast ’at he was gane, but 
as gien they war a’ teetin’ oot to see what had come o’ 
their Father o’ Lichts. A’ at ance I cam to mysel’, like 
oot o’ some blin’ delusion. Up I cuist my een aboon — 
an’ eh, there was the h’aven as God made it — awfu’! — big 
an’ deep, ay, faddomless deep, an’ fu’ o’ the wan’erin’ 
yet steady lichts ’at naething can blaw oot but the breath c’ 
his mooth ! Awa’ up an’ up it gaed, an’ deeper an’ deeper! 
an’ my e’en gaed traivelin’ awa’ an’ awa’, till it seemed a^ 
though they never could win back to me. A’ at ance 
they drappit frae the lift like a laverock, an’ lichtit upo’ 
the horizon, whaur the sea an’ the sky met like richteous- 
ness an’ peace kissin’ ane anither, as the psalm says. Noe 
I canna tell what it was, but jist there whaur the earth 
an’ the sky cam thegither was the meetin’ o’ my earthly 
sowl wi’ God’s h’avenly sowl! There was bonny colors T 
an’ bonny lichts, an’ a bonny grit star hingin’ ower ’t a’ r 
but it was nane o’ a’ thae things; it was something deeper 
nor a’, an’ heicher nor a’! Frae that moment I saw — no 
hoo the h’avens declare the glory o’ God, but I saw them 
declarin’ ’t, an’ I wantit nae mair. Astronomy for me 
micht sit an’ wait for a better warl’, whaur fowk didna 


188 


DONAL GRANT. 


weir oot their sliune, an’ ither fowk hadna to men’ them. 
For what is the great glory o’ God but that, though no 
man can comprehen’ him, he comes doon, an’ lays his 
cheek till his man’s, an’ says till him, ‘Eh, my cratur!’ ” 

While the cobbler was thus talking, they had gone the 
length of the avenue, and were within less than two trees 
of the door of the fruit-garden, when it opened, and was 
hurriedly shut again — not, however, before Donal had 
caught sight, as he believed, of the form of Eppy. He 
called her by name, and ran to the door, followed bv An- 
drew; the same suspicion had struck both of them at 
once! Donald lifted the latch, and would have opened 
the door, but some one held it against him, and he heard 
the noise of an attempt to push the rusty bolt into the 
staple. He set his strength to it, and forced the door 
open. Lord Forgue was on the other side of it, and a 
little way off stood Eppy trembling. Donal turned away 
from his lordship, and said to the girl: 

“Eppy, here’s your grandfather come to see you!” 

The cobbler, however, went up to Lord Forgue. 

“You’re a young man, my lord,” he said, “an’ may re- 
gard it as folly in an auld man to interfere between you 
an’ our wull; but I warn ye, my lord, excep’ you cease to 
carry yourself thus toward my granddaughter his lord- 
ship, your father, shall be informed of the matter. Eppy, 
you come home with me.” 

“I will not,” said Eppy, her voice trembling with pas- 
sion, though which passion it were hard to say: “I am a 
free woman. I make my own living. I will not be 
treated like a child!” 

“I will speak to Mistress Brookes,” said the old man 
with sad dignity. 

“And make her turn me away!” said Eppy. 

She seemed quite changed — bold and determined — was 
probably relieved that she could no more play a false part. 
His lordship stood and said nothing. 

“But don’t you think, grandfather,” continued Eppy, 
“that whatever Mistress Brookes says or does, I’ll go 
home with you! I’ve saved money, and, as I can’t get 
another place here when you’ve taken away my character, 
I’ll leave the country.” 

His lordship advanced, and with strained composure 
said: 


DONAL GRANT. 


189 


“ I confess, Mr. Comin, things do look against us. It 
is awkward you should have found us together, but you 
know” — and here he attempted a laugh — “we are told 
not to judge by appearances!” 

“We may be forced to act by them, though, my lord!” 
said Andrew. “I should be sorry to judge aither of you 
by them. Eppy must come home with me, or it will be 
more awkward yet for both of you!” 

“Oh, if you threaten us,” said Forgue contemptuously, 
“then of course we are very frightened! But you had 
better beware! You will only make it the more difficult 
for me to do your granddaughter the justice I always 
intended.” 

“What your lordship’s notion o’ justice may be, I wull 
not trouble you to explain,” said the old man. “All I 
desire for the present is that she come home with me.” 

“Let us leave the matter to Mistress Brookes!” said 
Forgue. “I shall easily satisfy her that there is no occa- 
sion for any hurry. Believe me, you will only bring 
trouble on the innocent!” 

“Then it canna be on you, my lord! for in this thing 
you have not behaved as a gentleman ought!” said the 
cobbler. 

“You dare tell me so!” cried Forgue, striding up to the 
little old man as if he would sweep him away with the 
very wind of his approach. 

“Yes; for else how should I say it to another, an’ that 
may soon bo necessar’ !” answered the cobbler. “Didna 
yer lordship promise an en’ to the haill meeserable affair?” 

“I remember nothing of the sort.” 

“You did to me!” said Donal. 

“Do hold your tongue, Grant, and don’t make things 
worse. To you I can easily explain it. Besides, you 
have nothing to do with it now this good fellow has taken 
it up. It is quite possible, besides, to break one’s word 
to the ear and yet keep it to the sense.” 

“The only thing to justify that suggestion,” said Donal, 
“would be that you had married Eppy, or were about to 
marry her!” 

Eppy would have spoken; but she only gave a little cry, 
for Forgue put his hand over her mouth. 

“You hold your tongue!” he said; “you will only com- 
plicate matters!” 


190 


DONAL GRANT. 


“And there’s another point, my lord,” resumed Donal; 
“you say I have nothing to do now with the affair: if not 
for my friend’s sake, I have for my own.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“That I am in the house a paid servant, and must not 
allow anything mischievous to go on in it without ac- 
quainting my master.” 

“You acknowledge, Mr. Grant, that you are neither 
more nor less than a paid servant, but you mistake your 
duty as such: I shall be happy to explain it to you. You 
have nothing whatever to do with what goes on in the 
house; you have but to mind your work. I told you be- 
fore, you are my brother’s tutor, not mine! To interfere 
with what I do, is nothing less than a piece of damned 
impertinence!” 

“That impertinence, however, I intend to be guilty of 
the moment I can get audience of your father.” 

“You will not, if I give you such explanation as satisfies 
you I have done the girl no harm, and mean honestly by 
her!” said Forgue in a confident, yet somewhat conciliatory 
tone. 

“In any case,” returned Donal, “you having once 
promised, and then broken your promise, I shall without 
fail tell your father all I know.” 

“And ruin her, and perhaps me too, for life?” 

“The truth will ruin only those that ought to be 
ruined!” said Donal. 

Forgue sprang upon him and struck him a heavy blow 
between the eyes. He had been having lessons in boxing 
while in Edinburgh, and had confidence in himself. It 
was a well-planted blow, and Donal unprepared for it. 
He staggered against the wall, and for a moment could 
neither see nor think: all he knew was that there was 
something or other he had to attend to. His lordship, 
excusing himself perhaps on the ground qf necessity, there 
being a girl in the case, would have struck him again; 
but Andrew threw himself between, and received the blow 
for him. 

As Donal came to himself, he heard a groan from the 
ground, and looking, saw Andrew at his feet, and under- 
stood. 

“Dear old man!” he said; “he dared to strike you!” 

“He didna mean ’t,” returned Andrew feebly. “Are 


DONAL GRANT. 


191 


ye winnin’ ower ’t, sir? He gae ye a terrible ane! Ye 
micht hae h’ard it across the street !” 

“I shall be all right in a minute!’’ answered Donal, 
wiping the blood out of his eyes. “I’ve a good hard 
head, thank God! But what has become of them?” 

“Ye didna think he wud be waitin’ to see’s come to 
oorsel’s!” said the cobbler. 

With Donal’s help, and great difficulty, he rose, and 
they stood looking at each other through the starlight, 
bewildered and uncertain. The cobbler was the first to 
recover his wits. 

“It’s o’ no mainner o’ use,” he said, “to rouse the castel 
wi’ hue an’ cry! What hae we to say but ’at we faund the 
twa i’ the gairden thegither! It wud but raise a clash — 
the which, fable or fac’, wud do naething for naebody! 
His lordship maun be loot ken, as ye say; but wull his 
lordship believe ye, sir? I’m some i’ the min’ the yoong 
man’s awa’ till’s faither a’ready, to prejudeese him again’ 
onything ye may say.” 

“That makes it the more necessary,” said Donal, 
“that I should go at once to his lordship. He will fall 
out upon me for not having told him at once; but I must 
not mind that: if I were not to tell him now, he would 
have a good case against me.” 

They were already walking toward the house, the old 
man giving a groan now and then. He could not go in, 
he said; he would walk gently on, and Donal would over- 
take him. 

It was an hour and a half before Andrew got home, and 
Donal had not overtaken him. 


CHAPTEB XXXY. 

THE EARL’S BEDCHAMBER. 

Having washed the blood from his face, Donal sought 
Simmons. 

“His lordship can’t see you now, I am sure, sir,” an- 
swered the butler; “Lord Forgue is with him.” 

Donal turned and went straight up to Lord Morven’s 
apartment. As he passed the door of his bedroom open- 
ing on the corridor, he heard voices in debate. He en- 


192 


DONAL GRAFT. 


tered the sitting-room. There was no one there. It was 
not a time for ceremony. He knocked at the door of the 
bedroom. The voices within were loud, and no answer 
came. He knocked again, and received an angry permis- 
sion to enter. He entered, closed the door behind him, 
and stood in sight of his lordship, waiting what should 
follow. 

Lord Morven was sitting up in bed, his face so pale and 
distorted that Donal thought elsewhere he should hardly 
have recognized it. The bed was a large four-post bed ; 
its curtains were drawn close to the posts, admitting as 
much air as possible. At the foot of it stood Lord Forgue, 
his handsome, shallow face flushed with anger, his right 
arm straight down by his side, and the hand of it clinched 
hard. He turned when Donal entered. A fiercer flush 
overspread his face, but almost immediately the look of 
rage yielded to one of determined insult. Possibly even 
the appearance of Donal was a relief to being alone with 
his father. 

“Mr. Grant,” stammered his lordship, speaking with 
pain, “you are well come! — just in time to hear a father 
curse his son!” 

“Even such a threat shall not make me play a dishonor- 
able part,” said Forgue, looking, however, anything but 
honorable, for the heart, not the brain, molds the expres- 
sion. 

“Mr. Grant,” resumed the father, “I have found you 
a man of sense and refinement! If you had been tutor to 
this degenerate boy, the worst trouble of my life would 
not have overtaken me.” 

Forgue’s lip curled, but he did not speak, and his father 
went on : 

“Here is this fellow come to tell me to my face that he 
intends the ruin and disgrace of the family by a low 
marriage!” 

“It will not be the first time it has been so disgraced!” 
retorted the son, “if fresh peasant-blood be indeed a dis- 
grace to any family!” 

“Bah! the hussy is not even a wholesome peasant-girl!” 
cried the father. “Who do you think she is, Mr. Grant?” 

“I do not need to guess, my lord,” replied Donal. “I 
came now to inform your lordship of what I had myself 
seen.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


198 


“She must leave the house this instant!’’ 

“Then I too leave it, my lord!” said Forgue. 

“Where’s your money?” returned the earl contemptu- 
ously. 

Forgue shifted to an attack upon Donal. 

“Your lordship hardly places confidence in me,” he 
said; “but it is not the less my duty to warn you against 
this man: months ago he knew what was going on, and 
comes to tell you now because this evening I chastised 
hirmfor his rude interference.” 

In cooler blood Lord Forgue would not have shown 
such meanness; but passion brings to the front the thing 
that lurks. 

“And it is no doubt to the necessity for forestalling his 
disclosure that I owe the present ingenuous confession!” 
said Lord Morven. “But explain, Mr. Grant.” 

“My lord,” said Donal calmly, “I became aware that 
there was something between Lord Forgue and the girl, 
and was alarmed for the girl: she is the child of friends 
to whom I am much beholden. But on the promise of 
both that the thing should end, I concluded it better not 
to trouble your lordship. I may have blundered in this, 
but I did what seemed best. This night, however, I dis- 
covered that things were going as before, and it became 
imperative on my position in your house that I should 
make your lordship acquainted with the fact. He as- 
severated there was nothing dishonest between them, but, 
having deceived me once, how was I to trust him again?” 

“How indeed! the young blackguard!” said his lord- 
ship, casting a fierce glance at his son. 

“Allow me to remark,” said Forgue, with comparative 
coolness, “that I deceived no one. What I promised was 
that the affair should not go on; it did not; from that 
moment it assumed a different and serious aspect. I now 
intend to marry the girl.” 

“I tell you, Forgue, if you do I will disown you.” 

Forgue smiled an impertinent smile and held his peace: 
the threat had for him no terror. 

“I shall be the better able,” continued his lordship, “to 
provide suitably for Davie; he is what a, son ought to be! 
But hear me, Forgue: you must be aware that, if I left 
you all I had, it would be beggary for one handicapped 
with a title. Yon may think my anger unreasonable, but 


104 


DONAL GRANT. 


it comes solely of anxiety on your account. Nothing but 
a suitable marriage — the most suitable of all is within 
your arm’s length — can save you from the life of a money- 
less peer — the most pitiable object on the face of the 
earth. Were it possible to ignore your rank, you have no 
profession, no trade even, in these trade-loving times, to 
fall back upon. Except you marry as I please, you will 
have nothing from me but the contempt of a title without 
a farthing to keep it decent. You threaten to leave the 
house — can you pay for a railway-ticket?” 

Forgue was silent for a moment. 

“My lord,” he said, “I have given my word to the girl: 
would you have me disgrace your name by breaking it?” 

“Tut! tut! there are words and words! What obliga- 
tion can there be in the rash promises of an unworthy 
love? Still less are they binding where the man is not 
his own master! You are under a bond to your family, 
under a bond to society, under a bond to your country. 
Marry this girl, and you will be an outcast; marry as I 
would have you, and no one will think the worse of you 
for a foolish vow in your boyhood. Bah! the merest 
rumor of it will never rise into the serene air of your 
position.” 

“And let the girl go and break her heart!” said Forgue, 
with a look black as death. 

“You need fear no such catastrophe! You are no such 
marvel among men that a kitchen-wench will break her 
heart for you. She will be sorry for herself, no doubt : 
hut it will be nothing more than she expected, and will 
only confirm her opinion of you: she knows well enough 
the risk she runs!” 

While he spoke, Donal, waiting his turn, stood as on 
hot iron. Such sayings were in his ears the foul talk of 
hell. The moment the earl ceased, he turned to Forgue, 
and said : 

“My lord, you have removed my harder thoughts of you! 
You have indeed broken your word, but in a way infinitely 
nobler than I believed you capable of!” 

Lord Morven stared dumfounded. 

“Your comments are out of place, Mr. Grant!” said 
Forgue, with something like dignity. “The matter is 
between my father and myself. If you wanted to beg my 
pardon, you should have waited a fitting opportunity!” 


BGNAL GRANT. 


195 


Donal held his peace. He had felt bound to show sym- 
pathy with his enemy where he was right. 

The earl was perplexed : his one poor ally had gone over 
to the enemy! He took a glass from the table beside him, 
and drank; then, after a moment’s silence, apparently of 
exhaustion and suffering, said: 

“Mr. Grant, I desire a word with you. Leave the 
room, Forgue.” 

“My lord,” returned Forgue, “you order me from the 
room to confer with one whose presence with you is an 
insult to me!” 

“He seems to me,” answered his father bitterly, “to 
be after your own mind in the affair! How indeed should 
it be otherwise! But so far I have found Mr. Grant a 
man of honor, and I desire to have some private conversa- 
tion with him. I therefore request you will leave us alone 
together.” 

This was said so politely, yet with such latent command, 
that the youth dared not refuse compliance. 

The moment he closed the door behind him, 

“I am glad he yielded,” said the earl, “for I should 
have had to ask you to put him out, and I hate rows. 
Would you have done it?” 

“1 would have tried.” 

“Thank you. Yet a moment ago you took his part 
against me!” 

“On the girl’s part — and for his honesty too, my lord!” 

“Gome now, Mr. Grant! I understand your prejudices. 
I cannot expect you to look on the affair as I do. I am 
glad to have a man of such sound general principles to 
form the character of my younger son; but it is plain as a 
mountain that what would be the duty of a young man in 
your rank of life toward a young woman in the same rank, 
would be simple ruin to one in Lord Forgue’s position. 
A capable man like you can make a living a hundred 
different ways; to one born with the burden of a title 
and without the means of supporting it, marriage with 
such a girl means poverty, gambling, hunger, squabbling, 
dirt — suicide!” 

“My lord,” answered Donal, “the moment a man 
speaks of love to a woman, be she as lowly and ignorant 
as mother Eve, that moment rank and privilege vanish 
and distinction is annihilated.” 


196 


DONAL GRANT. 


The earl gave a small sharp smile. 

“You would make a good pleader, Mr. Grant! But if 
you had seen the consequences of such a marriage half as 
often as I, you would modify your ideas. Mark what I 
say: this marriage shall not take place — by God! What! 
should I for a moment talk of it with coolness were there 
the smallest actual danger of its occurrence — did I not 
know that it never could, never shall take place? The 
boy is a fool, and he shall know it! I have him in my 
power — neck and heels in my power! He does not know 
it, and never could guess how; but it is true: one word 
from me, and the rascal is paralyzed! Oblige me by tell- 
ing him what I have just said. The absurd marriage 
shall not take place, I repeat. Invalid as I am, I am not 
yet reduced to the condition of an obedient father.” 

He took up a small bottle, poured a little from it, added 
water, and drank — then resumed. 

“Now for the girl: who knows about it?” 

“So far as I am aware, no one but her grandfather. He 
had come to the castle to inquire after her, and was with 
me when we came upon them in the fruit-garden.” 

“Then let no further notice be taken of it. Tell no 
one — not even Mrs. Brookes. Let the young fools do as 
they please.” 

“I cannot consent to that, my lord.” 

“Why, what the devil have you to do with it?” 

“I am the friend of her people.” 

“Pooh! pooh! don’t talk rubbish. What is it to them? 
I’ll see to them. It will ail come right. The aifair will 
settle itself. By Jove, I’m sorry you interfered! The 
thing would have been much better left alone.” 

“My lord,” said Donal, “I can listen to nothing in this 
strain.” 

“All I ask is — promise not to interfere.” 

“I will not.” 

“Thank you.” 

“My lord, you mistake. I will not promise. Nay, I 
will interfere. What to do, I do not now know; but I 
will save the girl if I can.” 

“And ruin an ancient family! You think nothing of 
that!” 

“Its honor, my lord, will be best preserved in that of 
the girl.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


197 


“D n you! will you preach to me?” 

Notwithstanding his fierce words, Donal could not help 
seeing or imagining an almost suppliant look in his eye. 

“You must do as I tell you in my house,” he went on, 
“or you will soon see the outside of it. Come: marry the 
girl yourself — she is deuced pretty — and I will give you 
£500 for your wedding journey. Poor Davie!” 

“Your lordship insults me.” 

“Then, d n you! be off to your lessons, and take 

your insolent face out of my sight.” 

“If I remain in your house, my lord, it is for Davie’s 
sake.” 

“Go away,” said the earl; and Donal went. 

He had hardly closed the door behind him, when he 
heard a bell ring violently; and ere he reached the bottom 
of the stair, he met the butler panting up as fast as his 
short legs and red nose would permit. He would have 
stopped to question Donal, who hastened past him and 
in the refuge of his own room sat down to think. Had 
his conventional dignity been with him a matter of im- 
portance, he would have left the castle the moment he 
got his things together; but he thought much more of 
Davie, and much more of Eppy. 

He had hardly seated himself when he jumped up 
again: he must see Andrew Comin! 


CHAPTEE XXXYI. 

A NIGHT-WATCH. 

When he reached the bottom of the hill, there at the 
gate was Forgue, walking up and down, apparently wait- 
ing for him. He would have passed him, but Forgue 
stepped in front of him. 

“Grant,” he said, “it is well we should understand 
each other!” 

“I think, my lord, if you do not yet understand me, it 
can scarcely be my fault.” 

“What did my father say?” 

“I would deliver to your lordship a message he gave 
me for you but for two reasons — one, that I believe he 
changed his mind, though he did not precisely say so, and 
the other, that I will not serve him or you in the matter.” 


198 


DONAL GRANT . 


“Then you intend neither to meddle nor make?’’ 

“That is my affair, my lord. I will not take your lord* 
ship into my confidence. 

“Don’t be unreasonable, now! Do get off your high 
horse. Can’t you understand a fellow? Everybody can’t 
keep his temper as you do! I mean the girl no harm.” 

“I will not talk with you about her. And whatever 
you insist on saying to me, I will use against you without 
scruple, should occasion offer.” 

As he spoke he caught a look on Forgue’s face which 
revealed somehow that it was not for him he had been 
waiting, but for Eppy. He turned and went back toward 
the castle: he might meet her! Forgue called after him, 
hut he paid no heed. 

As he hastened up the hill, not so much as the rustle 
of bird or mouse did he hear. He lingered about the top 
of the road for half an hour, then turned and went to 
the cobbler’s. 

He found Doory in great distress; for she was not 
merely sore troubled about her son’s child, but Andrew 
was in bed and suffering great pain. The moment Donal 
saw him he went for the doctor. He said a rib was 
broken, bound him up, and gave him some medicine. 
All done that could be done, Donal sat down to watch 
beside him. 

He lay still, with closed eyes and white face. So 
patient was he that his very pain found utterance in a 
sort of blind smile. Donal did not know much about 
pain; he could read in Andrew’s look his devotion to the 
will of Him whose being was his peace, but he did not 
know above what suffering his faith lifted him, and held 
him hovering yet safe. His faith made him one with life, 
the eternal Life — and that is salvation. 

In closest contact with the divine, the original relation 
restored, the source once more holding its issue, the divine 
love pouring itself into the deepest t vessel of the plan’s 
being, itself but a vessel for the holding of the diviner 
and divinest, who can wonder if keenest pain should not 
be able to quench the smile of the prostrate! Few indeed 
have reached the point of health to laugh at disease, but 
are there none? Let not a man say because he cannot 
that no one can. 


DONAL QUANT. 


199 


The old woman was very calm, only every now and then 
she would lift her hands and shake her head, and look as 
if the universe were going to pieces, because her husband 
lay there by the stroke of the ungodly. And if he had 
lain there forgotten, then indeed the universe would have 
been going to pieces! When he coughed, every pang 
seemed to go through her body to her heart. Love is as 
lovely in the old as in the young — lovelier when in them, 
as often, it is more sympathetic and unselfish — that is, 
more true. 

Donal wrote to Mrs. Brookes that he would not be 
home frhat night; and having found a messenger at the 
inn, settled himself to watch by his friend. 

The hours glided quietly over. Andrew slept a good 
deal, and seemed to have pleasant visions. He was find- 
ing, yet more saving. Now and then his lips would move 
as if he were holding talk with some friendly soul. Once 
Donal heard the murmured words, “Lord, I’m a’ ver 
ain;” and noted that his sleep grew deeper thereafter. 
He did not wake till the day began to dawn. Then he 
asked for some water. Seeing Donal, and divining that 
he had been by his bedside all the night, he thanked him 
with a smile and a little nod — which somehow brought to 
his memory certain words Andrew had spoken on another 
occasion: “There’s ane, an’ there’s a’; an’ the a’ ’s ane, 
an’ the ane ’s a’.” 

When Donal reached the castle, he found his breakfast 
and Mrs. Brookes waiting for him. She told him that 
Eppy, meeting her in the passage the night before, had 
burst into tears, but she could get nothing out of her, 
and had sent her to her room; this morning she had not 
come down at the proper time, and when she sent after 
her, she did not come; she went up herself, and found 
her determined to leave the castle that very day; she was 
now packing her things to go, nor did she see any good in 
trying to prevent her. 

Donal said if she would go home, there was plenty for 
her to do there; old people’s bones were not easy to mend, 
and it would be some time before her grandfather was 
well again! 

Mrs. Brookes said she would not keep her now if she 
begged to stay; she was afraid she would come to grief, 
and would rather she went home; she would take her 
home herself. 


200 


DONA L GRANT. 


“The lass is no an ill ane,” she added; “but she disna 
ken what she wild be at. She wants some o’ the Lord’s 
ain discipleen, I’m thinkin’!” 

“An’ that ye may be sure she’ll get, Mistress Brookes!” 
said Donal. 

Eppy was quite ready to go home and help nurse her 
grandfather. She thought her conduct must by this time 
be the talk of the castle and was in mortal terror of Lord 
Morven. All the domestics feared him— it would be hard 
to say precisely why; it came in part of seeing him so 
seldom that he had almost come to represent the ghost 
some said lived in the invisible room and haunted the 
castle. 

It was the easier for Eppy to go home that her grand- 
mother needed her, and that her grandfather would not 
be able to say much to her. She was an affectionate girl, 
and yet her grandfather’s condition roused in her no in- 
dignation; for the love of being loved is such a blinding 
thing that the greatest injustice from the dearest to the 
next dearest will by some natures be readily tolerated. 
God help us! we are a mean set — and meanest the man 
who is ablest to justify himself! 

Mrs. Brookes, having prepared a heavy basket of good 
things for Eppy to carry home to her grandmother, and 
made it the heavier for the sake of punishing her with 
the weight of it, set out with her, saying to herself: 

“The jaud wants a wheen harder wark nor I hae hauden 
till her han’, an’ doobtless it’s preparin’ for her!” 

She was kindly received, without a word of reproach, 
by her grandmother; the sufferer, forgetful of or forgiv- 
ing her words of rejection in the garden, smiled when she 
came near his bedside; and she turned away to conceal 
the tears she could not repress. She loved her grand- 
parents, and she loved the young lord, and she could not 
get the two loves to dwell together peaceably in her mind 
— a common difficulty with our weak, easily divided, 
hardly united natures — frangible, friable, readily dis- 
torted! It needs no less than God himself, not only to 
unite us to one another, but to make a whole of the ill- 
fitting, roughly disjointed portions of our individual 
beings. Tearfully hut diligently she set about her duties; 
and not only the heart, but the limbs and joints of her 
grandmother were relieved by her presence; while doubt' 


DONAL GRANT. 


201 


less she herself found some refuge from anxious thought 
in the service she rendered. What she saw as her proba- 
ble future, I cannot say; one hour her confidence in her 
lover’s faithfulness would be complete, the next it would 
be dashed with huge blots of uncertainty; but her grand- 
mother rejoiced over her as out of harm’s way. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

LORD FORGUE AND LADY ARCTURA. 

At the castle things fell into their old routine. Noth- 
ing had been arranged between Lord Forgue and Eppy, 
and he seemed content that it should be so. Mrs. Brookes 
told him that she had gone home: he made neither re- 
mark nor inquiry, manifesting no interest. 

It would be well his father should not see it necessary 
to push things further! He did not want to turn out of 
the castle! Without means, what was he to do? The 
marriage could not be to-day or to-morrow! and in the 
mean time he could see Eppy, perhaps more easily than 
at the castle. He would contrive! He was sorry he had 
hurt the old fellow, but he could not help it! he would 
get in the way! Things would have been much worse if 
he had not got first to his father! He would wait a bit, 
and see what would turn up! For the tutor-fellow, he 
must not quarrel with him downright! No good would 
come of that! In the end he would have his way! and 
that in spite of them all! 

But what he really wanted he did not know. He only 
knew, or imagined, that he was over head and ears in love 
with the girl : what was to come of it was all in the clouds. 
He had said he meant to marry her; but to that statement 
he had been driven, more than he knew, by the desire to 
escape the contempt of the tutor he scorned; and he re- 
joiced that he had at least discomfited him. He knew 
that if he did marry Eppy, or any one else of whom his 
father did not approve, he had nothing to look for but 
absolute poverty, for he knew no way to earn money; he 
was therefore unprepared to defy him immediately — what-, 
ever he might do by and by. He said to himself some- 
times that he was willing as any man to work for his wife 


202 


DONAL GRANT. 


if only he knew how; but when he said so, had he always 
a clear vision of Eppy as the wife in prospect? Alas! it 
would take years to make him able to earn even a woman’s 
wages! It would be a tine thing for a lord to labor like a 
common man for the support of a child of the people for 
whom he had sacrificed everything; but where was the 
possibility? When thoughts like these grew too many for 
him, Forgue wished he had never seen the girl. His 
heart would immediately reproach him; immediately he 
would comfort his conscience with the reflection that to 
wish he had never seen her was a very different thing 
from wishing to act as if he had. He loafed about in her 
neighborhood as much as he dared, haunted the house 
itself in the twilight, and at night even ventured some- 
times to creep up the stair, but for some time he never 
even saw her: for days Eppy never went out of doors ex- 
cept into the garden. 

Though she had not spoken of it, Arctura had had more 
than a suspicion that something was going on between 
her cousin and the pretty maid; for the little window of 
her sitting-room partially overlooked a certain retired spot 
favored of the lovers; and after Eppy left the house, 
Davie, though he did not associate the facts, noted that 
she wa3 more cheerful than before. But there was no 
enlargement of intercourse between her and Forgue. 
They knew it was the wish of the head of the house that 
they should marry, but the earl had been wise enough to 
say nothing openly to either of them: he believed the 
thing would have a better chance on its own merits; and 
as yet they had shown no sign of drawing to each other. 
It might, perhaps, have been otherwise on his part had 
not the young lord been taken with the pretty housemaid, 
though at first he had thought of nothing more than a 
little passing flirtation, reckoning his advantage with her 
by the height on which he stood in his own regard; but it 
was from no jealousy that Arctura was relieved by the 
departure of Eppy. She had never seen anything attract- 
ive in her cousin, and her religious impressions would 
have been enough to protect her from any drawing to 
him: had they not poisoned in her even the virtue of 
common house-friendliness toward a very different man? 
The sense of relief she had when Eppy went lay in being 
delivered from the presence of something clandestine, 


DONAL GRANT 


203 


with which she could not interfere so far as to confess 
knowledge of it. It had rendered her uneasy; she had 
felt shy and uncomfortable. Once or twice she had been 
on the point of saying to Mrs. Brookes that she thought 
her cousin and Eppy very oddly familiar, but had failed 
of courage. It was no wonder, therefore, that she should 
be more cheerful. 


CHAPTEK XXXVIII. 

ARCTURA AND SOPHIA. 

About this time her friend, Miss Carmichael, returned 
from a rather lengthened visit. But after the atonement 
that had taken place between her and Donal, it was with 
some anxiety that Lady Arctura looked forward to seeing 
her. She shrank from telling her what had come about 
through the wonderful poem, as she thought it, which 
had so bewitched her. She shrank too from showing her 
the verses: they were not of a kind, she was sure, to meet 
with recognition from her. She knew she would make 
game of them and that not good-humoredly like Kate, 
who yet confessed to some beauty in them. For herself, 
the poem and the study of its growth had ministered so 
much nourishment to certain healthy poetic seeds lying 
hard and dry in her bosom that they had begun to sprout, 
indeed to shoot rapidly up. Donal’s poem could not fail, 
therefore, to be to her thenceforward something sacred. A 
related result also was that it had made her aware of some- 
thing very defective in her friend’s constitution: she did 
not know whether in her constitution mental, moral, or 
spiritual; probably it was in all three. Doubtless, thought 
Arctura, she knew most things better than she, and cer- 
tainly had a great deal more common sense; but, on the 
other hand, was she not satisfied with far less than she 
could be satisfied with? To believe as her friend believed 
would not save her from insanity! She must be made on 
a smaller scale of necessities than herself! How was she 
able to love the God she said she believed in? God should 
at least be as beautiful as his creature could imagine him! 
But Miss Carmichael would say her poor earthly imagina- 
tion was not to occupy itself with such a high subject! 


204 


DONAL GRANT. 


Oh, why would not God tell her something about himself 
— something direct — straight from himself? Why should 
she only hear of him at second hand — always and always? 

Alas! poor girl! second hand? Five-hundredth hand 
rather! And she might have been all the time commun- 
ing with the very God himself, manifest in his own shape, 
which is ours also! all the time learning that her imagina- 
tion could never — not to say originate, but, when pre- 
sented, receive into it the unspeakable excess of his love- 
liness, of his absolute devotion and tenderness to the crea- 
tures, the children of his Father! 

In the absence of Miss Carmichael she had thought with 
less oppression of many things that in her presence ap- 
peared ghastly hopeless; now in the prospect of her reap- 
pearance she began to feel wicked in daring a thought of 
her own concerning the God that was nearer to her than 
her thoughts! Such an unhealthy mastery had she gained 
over her! What if they met Donal, and she saw her smile 
to him as she always did now! One thing she was deter- 
mined upon — and herein lay the pledge of her coming 
freedom — that she would not behave to him in the least 
otherwise than her wont. If she would be worthy she 
must be straightforward ! 

Donal and she had never had any further talk, much as 
she would have liked it, upon things poetic. As a matter 
of supposed duty — where she had got the idea I do not 
know — certainly not from Miss Carmichael, seeing she 
approved of little poetry but that of Young, Cowper, 
Pollok, and James Montgomery — she had been reading 
the “Paridise Lost,” and wished much to speak of it to 
Donal, but had not the courage. 

When Miss Carmichael came, she at once perceived a 
difference in her, and it set her thinking. She was not 
one to do or say anything without thinking over it first. 
She had such a thorough confidence in her judgment, and 
such a pleasure ' in exercising it, that slie almost always 
rejected an impulse. Judgment was on the throne; feel- 
ing under the footstool. There was something in Arctura’s 
carriage which reminded her of the only time when she 
had stood upon her rank with her. This was once she 
made a remark disparaging a favorite dog: for the animals 
Arctura could brave even her spiritual nightmare: they 
were not under the wrath and curse like men and women, 


DONAL GRANT. 


205 


therefore might be defended! She had on that occasion 
shown so much offense that Miss Carmichael saw, if she 
was to keep her influence over her, she must avoid rousing 
the phantom of rank in defense of prejudice. She was 
now, therefore, careful — said next to nothing, but watched 
her keenly, and not the less slyly that she looked her 
straight in the face. There is an effort to see into the 
souls of others that is essontially treacherous: wherever, 
friendship being the ostensible bond, inquiry outruns re- 
gard, it is treachery — an endeavor to grasp more than the 
friend would knowingly give. 

They went for a little walk in the grounds; as they 
returned they met Dunal going out with Davie. Arctura 
and Donal passed with a bow and a friendly smile; Davie 
stopped and spoke to the ladies, then bounded after his 
friend. 

“Have you attended the Scripture-lesson regularly?’’ 
asked Miss Carmichael. 

“Yes: I have been absent only once, I think, since you 
left,” replied Arctura. . , 

“Good, my dear! You have not been leaving your 
lamb to the wolf!” 

“I begin to doubt if he be a wolf.” 

“Ah! does he wear his sheepskin so well? Are you 
sure he is not plotting to devour sheep and shepherd 
together?” said Miss Carmichael, with an open glance 
of search. 

“Don’t you think,” suggested Arctura, “when you are 
not able to say anything, it would be better not to be 
present? Your silence looks like agreement.” 

“But you can always protest! You can assert he is all 
wrong. You can say you do not in the least agree with 
him !” 

“But what if you are not sure that you do not agree 
with him?” 

“I thought as much!” said Miss Carmichael to herself. 
“I might have foreseen this!” Here she spoke. “If you 
are not sare you do agree, you can say, ‘I can’t say I agree 
with you !’ It is always safer to admit little than much.” 

“I "do not quite follow you. But speaking of little and 
much, I am sure I want a great deal more than I know 
Vet to save me. I have never yet heard what seems 
enough.” 


206 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Is that to say God has not done his part?” 

“No; it is only to say that I hope he has done more 
than I have yet heard.” 

“More than sent his Son to die for your sins?” 

“More than you say that means.” 

“You have but to believe Christ did so.” 

“I don’t know that he died for my sins.” 

“He died for the sins of the whole world.” 

“Then I must be saved!” 

“Yes, if you believe that he made atonement for your 
sins.” 

“Then I cannot be saved except I believe that I shall 
be saved. And I cannot believe I shall be saved until I 
know I shall be saved!” 

“You are caviling, Arctura. Ah, this is what you have 
been learning of Mr. Grant! I ought not to have gone 
away!” 

“Nothing of the sort!” said Arctura, drawing herself 
up a little. “I am sorry if JI have said anything wrong; 
but really I can get hold of nothing! I feel sometimes 
as if I should go out of my mind.” 

“Arctura, I have done my best for you! If you think 
you have found a better teacher, no warning, I fear, will 
any longer avail !” 

“If I did think I had found a better teacher, no warn- 
ing certainly would; I am only afraid I have not. But of 
one thing I am sure — that the things Mr. Grant teaches 
are much more to be desired than ” 

“By the unsanctified heart, no doubt!” said Sophia. 

“The unsanctified heart,” rejoined Arctura, astonished 
at her own boldness, and the sense of power and freedom 
growing in her as she spoke, “surely needs God as much 
as the sanctified! But can the heart be altogether un- 
sanctified that desires to find God so beautiful and good, 
and that it can worship him with its whole power of love 
and adoration? Or is God less beautiful and good than 
that?” 

“We ought to worship God whatever he is.” 

“But could we love him with all our hearts if he were 
not altogether lovable?” 

“He might not be the less to be worshiped though he 
seemed so to us. We must worship his justice as much as 
his love, his power as much as his justice.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


207 


Arctura returned no answer; the words had fallen on 
her heart like an iceberg. She was not-, however, so 
utterly overwhelmed by them as she would have been 
some time before; she thought with herself, “I will ask 
Mr. Grant! I am sure he does not think like that! Wor- 
ship power as much as love! I begin to think she does 
not understand what she is talking about! If I were to 
make a creature needing all my love to make life endura- 
ble to him, and then not be kind enough to him, should I 
not be cruel? Would I not be to blame? Can God be 
God and do anything conceivably to blame — anything 
that is not altogether beautiful? She tells me we cannot 
judge what it would be right for God to do by what it 
would be right for us to do; if what seems right to me is 
not right to God, I must wrong my conscience and be a 
sinner in order to serve him ! Then my conscience is not 
the voice of God in me! How then am I made in his 
image? What does it mean? Ah, but that image has 
been defaced by the fall! So I cannot tell a bit what God 
is like! Then how am I to love him? I never can love 
him! I am very miserable! I am not God’s child !” 

Thus, long after Miss Carmichael had taken a coldly 
sorrowful farewell of her, Arctura went round and round 
the old mill-horse track of her self-questioning: God was 
not to be trusted in until she had done something she 
could not do, upon which he would take her into his 
favor, and then she could trust him ! What a God to give 
all her heart to, to long for, to dream of being at home 
with! Then she compared Miss Carmichael and Donal 
Grant, and thought whether Donal might not be as likely 
to be right as she. Oh, where was assurance, where was 
certainty about anything? How was she ever to know? 
What if the thing she came to know for certain should be 
— a God she could not love! 

The next day was Sunday. Davie and his tutor over- 
took her going home from church. It came as of itself to 
her lips, and she said : 

“Mr. Grant, how are we to know what God is like ? ?> 

“ ‘Philip saith unto him, Lord, show us the Father, and 
it sufficeth us. Jesus saith unto him, Have I been so 
long time with you, and yet hast thou not known me, 
Philip? He that hath seen me hath seen the Father, and 
how sayest thou then, Show us the Father?’ ” 


208 


DONAL GRANT. 


Thus answered Donal, without a word of his own, and 
though the three walked side by side, it was ten minutes 
before another was spoken. Then at last said Arctura: 

“If I could but see Christ !” 

“It is not necessary to see him to know what he is like. 
You can read what those who knew him said he was like; 
that is the first step to understanding him, which is the 
true seeing; the second is, doing what he tells you: when 
you understand him — there is your God!” 

From that day Arctura’s search took a new departure. 
It is strange how often one may hear a thing, yet never 
have really heard it! The heart can hear only what it is 
capable of hearing: therefore “the times of this ignorance 
God winked at;” but alas for him who will not hear what 
he is capable of hearing! 

His failure to get word or even sight of Eppy, together 
with some uneasiness at the condition in which her grand- 
father continued, induced Lord Forgue to accept the in- 
vitation — which his father had taken pains to have sent 
him — to spend three weeks or a month with a relative in 
the north of England. He would gladly have sent a 
message to Eppy before he went, but had no one he could 
trust with it: Davie was too much under the influence of 
his tutor! So he departed without sign, and Eppy soon 
imagined he had deserted her. Eor a time her tears 
flowed yet more freely, but by and by she began to feel 
something of relief in having the matter settled, for she 
could not see how they were ever to be married. She 
would have been content to love him always, she said to 
herself, were there no prospect of marriage, or even were 
there no marriage in question; but would he continue to 
care for her love? She did not think she could expect 
that. So with many tears she gave him up — or thought 
she did. He had loved her, and that was a grand thing! 

There was much that was good, and something that was 
wise in the girl, notwithstanding her folly in allowing 
such a lover. The temptation was great: even if his at- 
tentions were in their nature but transient, they were 
sweet while they passed. I doubt if her love was of the 
deepest she had to give: but who can tell? A woman will 
love where a man can see nothing lovely. So long as she 
is able still to love, she is never quite to be pitied; but 
when the reaction comes 


DONAL GRANT. 


209 


So the dull days went by. 

But lor Lady Arctura a great hope had begun to dawn 
— the hope, namely, that the world was in the hand, yea, in 
the heart of One whom she herself might one day see, in 
her inmost soul, and with clearest eyes, to be Love itself 
— not a love she could not care for, but the very heart, 
generating center, embracing circumference, and crown 
of all loves. 

Donal prayed to God for Lady Arctura, and waited. 
Her hour was not yet come, but was coming! Every one 
that is ready the Father brings to Jesus: the disciple is 
not greater than his master, and must not think to hasten 
the hour, or lead one who is not yet taught of God ; he 
must not be miserable about another as if God had for- 
gotten him. Strange helpers of God we shall be, if, 
thinking to do his work, we act as if he were neglecting 
it! To wait for God, believing it his one design to redeem 
his creatures, ready to put the hand to, the moment his 
hour strikes, is the faith fit for a fellow-worker with him! 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE CASTLE ROOF. 

Oxe stormy Friday night in the month of March, when 
the bitter east wind was blowing, Donal, seated at the 
plain deal table he had got Mrs. Brookes to find him that 
he might use it regardless of ink, was drawing upon it a 
diagram, in quest of a simplification for Davie, when a 
sudden sense of cold made him cast a glance at his fire. 
He had been aware that it was sinking, but, as there was 
no fuel in the room, had forgotten it again: it was very 
low, and he must at once fetch both wood and coal! In 
certain directions and degrees of wind this was rather a 
ticklish task; but he had taken the precaution of putting 
up here and there a bit of rope. Closing the door behind 
him to keep in what warmth he might, and ascending the 
stairs, a few feet higher, he stepped out on the bartizan 
and so round the tower to the roof. There he stood for a 
moment to look about him. 

It was a moonlit night, so far as the clouds blown in 
huge and almost continuous masses over the heavens 


210 


TONAL GRANT. 


would permit the light of the moon to emerge. The roar- 
ing of the sea came like a low rolling mist across the flats. 
The air gloomed and darkened and lightened again around 
him as the folds of the cloud-blanket overhead were torn, 
or dropped trailing, or gathered again in the arms of the 
hurrying wind. As he stood, it seemed suddenly to 
change, and take a touch of south in its blowing. The 
same instant came to his ear a loud wail: it was the ghost- 
music! There was in it the cry of a discord, mingling 
with a wild rolling change of harmonies. He stood “like 
one forbid, ” and listened with all his power. It came 
again, and again, and was more continuous than he had 
ever heard it before. Here was now a chance indeed of 
tracing it home. As a gazehound with his eyes, as a 
sleuthhound with his nose, he stood ready to start hunt- 
ing with his listing listening ear. The seeming approach 
and recession of the sounds might be occasioned by 
changes in their strength, not by any change of position. 

“It must come from somewhere on the roof!” he said, 
and setting down the pail he had brought, he got on his 
hands and knees, first to escape the wind in his ears, and 
next to diminish its hold on his person. Over roof after 
roof he crept like a cat, stopping to listen every time a 
new gush of the sound came, then starting afresh in the 
search for its source. Upon a great gathering of roofs 
like these, erected at various times on various levels, and 
with all kinds of architectural accommodations of one 
part to another, sound would be variously deflected, and 
as difficult to trace as inside the house. Careless of cold 
or danger, he persisted, creeping up, creeping down, over 
flat leads, over sloping slates, over great roofing-stones, 
along low parapets, and round ticklish corners — following 
the sound ever, as a cat a flitting unconscious bird; when 
it ceased, he would keep slowly on in the direction last 
chosen. Sometimes, when the moon was more profoundly 
obscured, he would have to stop altogether, unable to get 
a peep of his way. 

On one such occasion, when it was nearly pitch-dark, 
and the sound had for some time ceased, he was crouch- 
ing upon a high-pitched roof of great slabs, his fingers 
clutched around the edges of one of them, and his moun- 
taineering habits standing him in good stead, protected a 
little from the force of the blast by a huge stack of chim- 


DONAL QUANT. 


211 


neys that rose to windward while he clung thus waiting — 
louder than he had yet heard it, almost in his very ear, 
arose the musical ghost-cry— this time like that of a soul 
m torture. The moon came out, as at the cry, to see, 
but Donal could sny nothing to suggest its origin. As if 
disappointed, the moon instantly withdrew, the darkness 
again fell, and the wind rushed upon him full of keen 
slanting rain, as if with tierce intent of protecting the 
secret: there was little chance of success that night! he 
must break off the hunt till daylight! If there was any 
material factor in the sound, he would be better able to 
discover it then! By the great chimney-stack he could 
identify the spot where he had been nearest to it! There 
remained for the present but the task of finding his way 
back to his tower. 

A difficult task it was — more difficult than he antici- 
pated. He had not an idea in what direction his tower 
lay — had not an idea of the track, if track it could be 
called, by which he had come. One thing only was clear 
— it was somewhere else than where he was. He set out, 
therefore, like any honest pilgrim who knows only he 
must go somewhere else, and began his wanderings. He 
found himself far more obstructed than in coming. Again 
and again he could go no further in the direction he was 
trying, again and again had to turn and try another. It 
was half an hour at least before he came to a spot he 
knew, and by that time, with the rain the wind had fallen 
a little. Against a break in the clouds he saw the outline 
of one of his store-sheds, and his way was thenceforward 
plain. He caught up his pail, filled it with coal and 
wood, and hastened to his nest as quickly as cramped 
joints would carry him, hopeless almost of finding his lire 
still alive. 

But when he reached the stair, and had gone down a 
few steps, he saw a strange sight; below him, at his door, 
with a small wax taper in her hand, stood the form of a 
woman, in the posture of one who had just knocked and 
was hearkening for an answer. So intent was she, and so 
loud was the wind among the roofs, that she had not 
heard his step, and he stood a moment afraid to speak lest 
he should startle her. Presently she knocked again. He 
made an attempt at ventriloquy, saying in a voice to 
sound further off than it was, “Come in.” A hand rose 


212 


DONAL GRANT. 


to the latch, and opened the door. By the hand he knew 
it was Lady Arctura. 

“Welcome to the stormy sky, my lady!” he said as he 
entered the room after her — a pleasant object after his 
crawling excursion! 

She started a little at his voice behind her, and turning 
was more startled still. 

Donal was more like a chimney-sweep than a tutor in a 
lord’s castle. He was begrimed and blackened from head 
to foot, and carried a pailful of coals and wood. Bead- 
ing readily her look, he made haste to explain. 

“I have been on the roof for the last hour,” he said. 

“What were you doing there,” she asked, with a strange 
mingling of expressions, “in such a night?” 

“I heard the music, my ladv — the ghost-music, you 
know, that haunts the castle, and ” 

“I heard it too,” she murmured, with a look almost of 
terror. “I have often heard it before, but never so loud 
as to-night. Have you any notion about it, Mr. Grant?” 

“None whatever — except that I am nearly sure it comes 
from somewhere about the roof.” 

“If you could clear up the mystery!” 

“I have some hope of it. You are not frightened, my 
lady?” 

She had caught hold of the back of a chair. 

“Do sit down. I will get you some water.” 

“No, no; I shall be right in a moment!” she answered. 
“Your stair has taken my breath away. But my uncle is 
in such a strange condition that I could not help coming 
to you.” 

“I have seen him myself, more than once, very strange.” 

“Will you come with me?” 

“Anywhere.” 

“Come, then.” 

She left the room, and led the way, by the light of her 
dim taper, down the stair. About the middle of it, she 
stopped at a door, and turning said, with a smile like that 
of a child, and the first untroubled look Donal had yet 
seen upon her face: 

“How delightful it is to be taken out of fear! I am 
not the least afraid now!” 

“I am very glad,” said Donal. “I should like to kill 
fear; it is the shadow that follows at the heels of wrong. 


DONAL GRANT. 


218 


Do you think the music has anything to do with your 
uncle’s condition?” 

“I do not know.” 

She turned again hastily, and passing through the door, 
entered a part of the house with which Donal had no 
acquaintance. With many bewildering turns, she led him 
to the great staircase, down which she continued her 
course. The house was very still: it must surely be later 
than he had thought — only there were so few servants in 
it for its extent. His guide went very fast, with a step 
light as a bird’s; at one moment he had all but lost sight 
of her in the great curve. At the room in which Donal 
first saw the earl, she stopped. 

The door was open, but there was no light within. She 
led him across to the door of the little chamber behind. 
A murmur, but no light, came from it. In a moment it 
was gone, and the deepest silence filled the world. Arc- 
tura entered. One step within the door she stood still, 
and held high her taper. Donal looked in sideways. 

A small box was on the floor against the foot of the 
furthest wall, and on the box, in a long dressing-gown of 
rich faded stuff, the silk and gold in which shone feebly 
in the dim light, stood the tall meager form of the earl, 
with his back to the door, his face to the wall, close to it, 
and his arms and hands stretched out against it, like one 
upon a cross. He stood without moving a muscle or 
uttering a sound. What could it mean? Donal gazed in 
a blank dismay. Not a minute had passed, though it was 
to him a long and painful time, when the murmuring 
came again. He listened as to a voice from another world 
— a thing terrible to those whose fears dwell in another 
world. But to Donal it was terrible as a voice from no 
other world could have been; it came from an unseen 
world of sin and suffering — a world almost a negation of 
the eternal, a world of darkness and the shadow of death. 
But surely there was hope for that world yet! — for whose 
were the words in which its indwelling despair grew audible? 

“And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward 
of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss!” 

Again the silence fell, but the form did not move, and 
still they stood regarding him. 

From far away came the sound of the ghost-music. 
The head against the wall began to move as if waking 


214 


DONAL GRANT. 


from sleep. The hands sank along the wall and fell by 
the sides. The earl gave a deep sigh, but still stood lean- 
ing his forehead against the wall. 

Arctura turned, and they left the room. 

She went down the stair, and on to the library. Its 
dark oak cases and old binding reflected hardly a ray of 
the poor taper she carried; but the fire was not yet quite 
out. She set down the light and looked at Donal in 
silence. 

“What does it all mean?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. 

“God knows!” she returned solemnly. 

“Are we safe?” he asked. “May he not come here?” 

“I do not think he will. I have seen him in many 
parts of the house, but never here.” 

Even as she spoke the door swung noiselessly open and 
the earl entered. His face was ghastly pale; his eyes 
were wide open; he came straight toward them. But he 
did not see them; or, if he did, he saw them but as phan- 
toms of the dream in which he was walking — phantoms 
which had not yet become active in the dream. He drew 
a chair to the embers, in his fancy doubtless a great fire, 
sat for a moment or two gazing into them, rose, went the 
whole length of the room, took down a book, returned 
with it to the fire, drew toward him Arctura’s tiny taper, 
opened the book, and began to read in an audible mur- 
mur. Donal, trying afterward to recall and set down 
what he had heard, wrote nothing better than this: 

“ In the heart of the earth-cave 
Lay the king. 

Through chancel and choir and nave 
The bells ring. 


“ Said the worm at his side, 

‘ Sweet fool, 

Turn to thy bride. 

Is the night so cool ? 

Wouldst thou lie like a stone till the aching morn 
Out of the dark be born ? * 


“ Heavily pressed the night enorm, 

But he heard the voice of the worm, 

Like the sound of a muttered thunder low, 
In the realms where no feet go, 


DONAL QUANT. 


21 5 


** And lie said, ‘ I will rise, 

I will will myself glad; 

I will open my eyes, 

And no more sleep sad. 

** 4 For who is a god 

But the man who can spring 
Up from the sod, 

And be his own king ? 


“ * I will model my gladnesa, 

Dig my despair — 

And let goodness or badness ] 

Be folly’s own care ! 

** 4 I will be content, 

And the world shall spin round 
Till its force be outspent. 

It shall drop 
Like a top — 

Spun by a boy, 

While I sit in my tent, 

In a featureless joy — 

Sit without sound, 

And toss up my world, 

Till it burst and be drowned 
In the blackness upcurled 
From the aeep hell-ground. 

“ * The dreams of a god 

Are the worlds of his slaves: 

I will be my own god, 

And rule my own knaves.’ ” 

He went on in this way for some minutes; then the 
rhymes grew less perfect, and the utterance sank into 
measured prose. The tone of the speaker showed that he 
took the stuff for glowing verse, and regarded it as em- 
bodying his own present consciousness. One might have 
thought the worm would have a word to say in rejoinder; 
but no; the worm had vanished, and the buried dreamer 
had made himself a god — his own god! Donal stole up 
softly behind him and peeped at the open book; it was 
the “Novum Organum.” 

They glided out of the room and left the dreamer to 
his dreams. 

“Do you think,” said Donal, “I ought to tell Sim- 
mons?” 


216 


DONAL ORANT. 


*‘It would be better. Do you know where to find him?” 

“I do not.” 

“I will show you a bell that rings in his room. He will 
think his lordship has rung it.” 

They went and rang the bell. In a minute or two the} r 
heard the steps of the faithful servant seeking his master, 
and bade each other good-night. 


CHAPTER XL. 

A RELIGION LESSON. 

In the morning Donal learned from Simmons that his 
master was very ill — could not raise his head. 

“The way he do moan and cry!” said Simmons. “You 
would think sure he was either out of his mind or had some- 
thing heavy upon it! All the years I known him, he 
been like that every now an’ then, and back to his old 
self again, little the worse! Only the fits do come 
oftener.” 

Toward the close of school, as Donal was beginning to 
give his lesson in religion, Lady Arctura entered and sat 
down beside Davie. “What would you think of me, 
Davie,” Donal was saying, “if I were angry with you 
because you did not know something I had never taught 
you?” 

Davie only laughed. It was to him a grotesque, an 
impossible supposition. 

“If,” Donal resumed, “I were to show you a proposi- 
tion of Euclid which you had never seen before, and say 
to you, ‘Now, Davie, this is one of the most beautiful of 
all Euclid’s propositions, and you must immediately ad- 
mire it, and admire Euclid for constructing it!’ what 
would you say?” 

Davie thought, and looked puzzled. 

“But you wouldn’t do it, sir!” he said. “I know you 
wouldn’t do it!” he added, after a moment. 

“Why should I not?” 

“It isn’t your way, sir.” 

“But suppose I were to take that way?” 

“You would not then be like yourself, sir!” 

“Tell me how I should be unlike myself. Think.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


217 


“You would not be reasonable.” 

“What would you say to me?” 

“I should say, ‘Please, sir, let me learn the proposition 
first, and then I shall be able to admire it. I don’t know 
it yet!’ ” 

“Very good! Now again, suppose, when you tried to 
learn it, you were not able to do so and therefore could 
see no beauty in it — should 1 blame you?” 

“No, sir; I am sure you would not — because I should 
not be to blame, and it would not be fair; and you never 
do what is not fair!” 

“I am glad you think so: I try to be fair. That looks 
as if you believed in me, Davie.” 

“Of course I do, sir!” 

“Why?” 

“Just because you are fair.” 

“Suppose, Davie, I said to you, ‘Here is a very beauti- 
ful thing I should like you to learn,’ and you, after you 
had partly learned it, were to say, ‘I don’t see anything 
beautiful in this: I am afraid I never shall!’ — would that 
be to believe in me?” 

“No, surely, sir! for you know best what I am able for.” 

“Suppose you said, ‘I dare say it is all as good as you 
say, but I don’t care to take so much trouble about it’ — 
what would that be?” 

“Not to believe in you, sir. You would not want me 
to learn a thing that was not worth my trouble, or a thing 
I should not be glad of knowing when I did know it.” 

“Suppose you said, ‘Sir, I don’t doubt what you say, 
but I am so tired, I don’t mean to do anything more you 
tell me’ — would you then be believing in me?” 

“No. That might be to believe your word, but it 
would not be to trust you. It would be to think my 
thinks better than your thinks, and that would be no 
faith at all.” 

Davie had at times an oddly childish way of putting 
things. 

“Suppose you were to say nothing, but go away and do 
nothing of what I told you — what would that be?” 

“Worse and worse; it would be sneaking.” 

“One question more: what is faith — the big faith, I 
mean — not the little faith between equals — the big faith 
we put in One above us?” 


218 


DONAL GRANT. 


“It is to go at once and do the thing he tells us to do/* 

“If we don’t, then we haven’t faith in him?” 

“No; certainly not.” 

“But might not that be his fault?” 

“Yes — if he was not good — and so I could not trust 
him. If he said I was to do oue kind of thing, and he did 
another kind of thing himself, then of course I could not 
have faith in him.” 

“And yet you might feel you must do what he told 
you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Would that be faith in him?” 

“No.” 

“Would you always do what he told you?” 

“Not if he told me to do what it would be wrong to 
do.” 

“Now tell me, Davie, what is the biggest faith of all — 
the faith to put in the one only altogether good person.” 

“You mean God, Mr. Grant?” 

“Whom else could I mean?” 

“You might mean Jesus.” 

“They are one; they mean always the same thing, do 
always the same thing, always agree. There is only thing 
they don’t do the same in — they do not love the same 
person.” 

“What do you mean, Mr. Grant?” interrupted Arctura. 

She had been listening intently: was the cloven foot of 
Mr. Grant’s heresy now at last about to appear plainly? 

“I mean this,” answered Donal, with a smile that 
seemed to Arctura such a light as she had never seen on 
human face, “that God loves Jesus, not God; and Jesus 
loves God, not Jesus. We love one another, not ourselves 
— don’t we, Davie?” 

“You do, Mr. Grant,” answered Davie modestly. 

“Now tell me, Davie, what is the great big faith of all 
—that which we have to put in the Father of us, who is 
as good not only as thought can think, but as good as 
heart can wish — infinitely better than anybody but Jesus 
Christ can think — what is the faith to put in him?” 

“Oh, it is everything!” answered Davie. 

“But what first?” answered Donal. 

“First, it is to do what he tells us.” 

“Yes, Davie; it is to learn his problems by going and 


DONAL GRANT. 


219 


doing his will; not trying to understand things first, but 
trying first to do things. We must spread out our arms 
to him as a child does to his mother when he wants her to 
take him; then when he sets us down, saying, ‘Go and do 
this or that,’ we must make all the haste in us to go and 
do it. And when we get hungry to see him, we must 
look at his picture.’ ’ 

“Where is that, sir?” 

“Ah, Davie, Davie! don’t you know that yet? Don’t 
you know that, besides being himself, and just because he 
is himself, Jesus is the living picture of God?” 

“I know, sir! We have to go and read about him in 
the book.” 

“May I ask yon a question, Mr. Grant?” said Arctura. 

“With perfect freedom,” answered Donal. “I only 
hope I may be able to answer it.” 

“When we read about Jesus we have to draw for our- 
selves his likeness from words, and yon know what kind 
of a likeness the best artist would make that way, who 
had never seen with his own eyes the person whose por- 
trait he had to paint!” 

“I understand you quite,” returned Donal. “Some go 
to other men to draw it for them; and some go to others 
to hear from them what they must draw — thus getting all 
their blunders in addition to those they must make for 
themselves. But the nearest likeness you can see of him 
is the- one drawn by yourself while doing what he tells 
you. He has promised to come into those who keep his 
word. He will then be much nearer to them than in 
bodily presence; and such may well be able to draw for 
themselves the likeness of God. But first of all, and 
before everything else, mind, Davie, obedience!” 

“Yes, Mr. Grant; I know,” said Davie. 

“Then off with you! Only think sometimes it is God 
who gave yon your game.” 

“I’m going to fly my kite, Mr. Grant.” 

“Do. God likes to see you fly your kite, and it is all 
in his March wind it flies. It could not go up a foot but 
for that.” 

Davie went. 

“You have heard that my uncle is very ill to-day?” 
said Arctura. 

“I have. Poor man!” replied Donal. 


240 


ONAL GRANT. 


“He must be in a very peculiar condition. ” 

“Of body and mind both. He greatly perplexes me.” 

“You would be quite as much perplexed if you had 
known him as long as I have! Never since my father’s 
death, which seems a century ago, have I felt safe; never 
in my uncle’s presence at ease. I get no nearer to him. 
It seems to me, Mr. Grant, that the cause of discomfort 
and strife is never that we are too near others, but that 
we are not near enough.” 

This was a remark after Donal’s own heart. 

“I understand you,” he said, “and entirely agree with 
you.” 

“I never feel that my uncle cares for me except as one 
of the family, and the holder of its chief property. He 
would have liked me better, perhaps, if 1 had been depend- 
ent on him.” 

“How long will he be your guardian?” asked Donah 

“He is no longer my guardian legally. The time set by 
my father’s will ended last year. I am twenty-three, and 
my own mistress. But of course it is much better to have 
the head of the house with me. I wish he were a little 
more like other people! But tell me about the ghost- 
music: we had not time to talk of it last night!” 

“I got pretty near the place it came from. But the 
wind blew so, and it was so dark, that I could do nothing 
more then.” 

“You will try again?” 

“I shall indeed.” 

“I am afraid, if you find a natural cause for it, I shall 
be a little sorry.” 

“How can there be any other than a natural cause, my 
lady? God and nature are one. God is the causing 
nature. Tell me, is not the music heard only in stormy 
nights, or at least nights with a good deal of wind?” 

“I have heard it in the daytime!” 

“On a still day?” 

“I think not. I think too I never heard it on a still 
summer night.” 

“Do you think it comes in all storms?” 

“I think not.” 

“Then perhaps it has something to do not merely with 
the wind, but with the direction of the wind!” 

“Perhaps. I cannot say.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


221 


“That might account for the uncertainty of its visits! 
The instrument may be accessible, yet its converse with 
the operating power so rare that it has not yet been dis- 
covered. It is a case in which experiment is not permitted 
us: we cannot make a wind blow, neither can we vary the 
direction of the wind blowing; observation alone is left 
us, and that can be only at such times when the sound is 
heard.” 

“Then you can do nothing till the music comes again?” 

“I think I can do something now; for last night I 
seemed so near the place whence the sounds were coming 
that the eye may now be able to supplement the ear, and 
find the music-bird silent on her nest. If the wind fall, 
as I think it will in the afternoon, I shall go again and 
see whether I can lind anything. I noticed last night 
that simultaneously with the sound came a change in the 
wind — toward the south, I think. What a night it was 
after I left you !” 

“I think,” said Arctura, “the wind has something to 
do with my uncle’s fits. Was there anything very strange 
about it last night? When the wind blows so angrily, I 
always think of that passage about the prince of the power 
of the air being the spirit that works in the children of 
disobedience. Tell me what it means.” 

“I do not know what it means,” answered Donal; “but 
I suppose the epithet involves a symbol of the difference 
between the wind of God that inspires the spiritual true 
self of man, and the wind of the world that works by 
thousands of impulses and influences in the lower, the 
selfish self of children that will not obey. I will look 
at the passage and see what I can make out of it. Only 
the spiritual and the natural blend so that we may one 
day be astonished! Would you like to join the music- 
hunt, my lady?” 

“Do you mean, go on the roof? Should I be able?” 

“I would not have you go in the night, and the wind 
blowing,” said Donal with a laugh; “but you can come 
and see, and judge for yourself. The bartizan is the only 
anxious place, but as I mean to take Davie with me, you 
may think I do not count it very dangerous!” 

“Will it be safe for Davie?” 

“I can venture more with Davie than with another; he 
obeys in a moment. ” 


222 


DONAL GRANT. 


“I will obey too if you will take me,” said Arctura. 

“Then, please, come to the schoolroom at four o’clock. 
But we shall not go except the wind be fallen.” 

When Davie heard what his tutor proposed, he was 
filled with the restlessness of anticipation. Often while 
helping Donal with his fuel, he had gazed up at him on 
the roof with longing eyes, but Donal had never let him 
go upon it. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE HUSIC-HEST. 

The hour came, and with the very stroke of the clock, 
Lady Arctura and Davie were in the schoolroom. A 
moment more, and they set out to climb the spiral of 
Baliol’s Tower. 

But what a different lady was Arctura this afternoon! 
She was cheerful, even merry — with Davie, almost jolly. 
Her soul had many alternating lights and glooms, but it 
was seldom or never now so clouded as when first Donal 
saw her. In the solitude of her chamber, where most the 
simple soul should be conscious of life as a blessedness, 
she was yet often haunted by ghastly shapes of fear; but 
there also other forms had begun to draw nigh to her; 
sweetest rays of hope would ever and anon break through 
the clouds, and mock the darkness from her presence. 
Perhaps God might mean as thoroughly well by her as 
even her imagination could wish! 

Does a dull reader remark that hers was a diseased state 
of mind? I answer, the more she needed to be saved 
from it with the only real deliverance from any ill! But 
her misery, however diseased, was infinitely more reason- 
able than the healthy joy of such as trouble themselves 
about nothing. Some sicknesses are better than any but 
the true health. 

“I never thought you were like this, Arkie!” said 
Davie. “You are just as if you had come to school to 
Mr. Grant! You would soon know how much happier it 
is to have somebody you must mind!” 

“If having me, Davie,” said Donal, “doesn’t help you 
to be happy without me, there will not have been much 
good done. What I waiit most to teach you is to leave 


DONAL GRANT. 


223 


the door always on the latch, for some one — you know 
whom I mean — to come in.” 

“Race me up the stair, Arkie,” said Davie, when they 
came to the foot of the spiral. 

“Very well,” assented his cousin. 

“Which side will you have — the broad or the narrow?” 

“The broad.” 

“Well, then — one, two, three, and away we go!” 

Davie mounted like a clever goat, his hand and arm on 
the newel, and slipping lightly round it. Arctura’s 
ascent was easier but slower: she found her garments in 
her way, therefore yielded the race, and waited for Donal. 
Davie, thinking be heard her footsteps behind him all the 
time, flew up shrieking with the sweet terror of love’s 
pursuit. 

“What a darling the boy has grown!” said Arctura 
when Donal overtook her. 

“Yes,” answered Donal; “one would think such a 
child might run straight into the kingdom of heaven, but 
I suppose he must have his temptations and trials first: 
out of the storm alone comes the true peace.” 

“Will peace come out of all storms?” 

“I trust so. Every pain and every fear, every doubt is 
a cry after God. AVhat mother refuses to go to her child 
because he is only crying — not calling her by name?” 

“Oh, if I could but believe so about God! For if it be 
all right with God — I mean if God be such a God as to be 
loved with the heart and soul of loving, then all is well. 
Is it not, Mr. Grant?” 

“Indeed it is! And you are not far from the kingdom 
of heaven,” he was on the point of saying, but did not — 
because she was in it already, only unable yet to verify 
the things around her, like the man who had but half-way 
received his sight. 

When they reached the top, he took them past his door, 
and higher up the stair to the next, opening on the 
bartizan. Here he said Lady Arctura must come with 
him first, and Davie must wait till he came back for him. 
When he had them both safe on the roof, he told Davie 
to keep close to his cousin or himself all the time. He 
showed them first his stores of fuel— his ammunition, he 
said, for fighting the winter. Next he pointed out where 
he stood when first he heard the music the night before, 


224 


DONAL GRANT. 


and set down his bucket to follow it; and where he found 
the bucket, blown thither by the wind, when he came 
back to feel for it in the dark. Then he began to lead 
them, as nearly as he could, the way he had then gone, 
but with some, for Arctura’s sake, desirable detours: over 
one steep sloping roof they had to cross, he found a little 
stair up the middle, and down the other side. 

They came to a part where he was not quite sure about 
the way. As he stopped to bethink himself, they turned 
and looked eastward. The sea was shining in the sun, 
and the flat wet country between was so bright that they 
could not tell where the land ended and the sea began. 
But as they gazed a great cloud came over the sun, the 
sea turned cold and gray as death — a true March sea, and 
the lanu lay low and desolate between. The spring was 
gone and the winter was there. A gust of wind, full of 
keen hail, drove sharp in their faces. 

“Ah, that settles the question!” said Donal. “The 
music-bird must wait. We will call upon her another 
day. It is funny, isn’t it, Davie, to go a-bird’s-nesting 
after music on the roof of a house?” 

“Hark!” said Arctura; “I think I heard the music- 
bird! She wants us to find her nest! I really don’t think 
we ought to go back for a little blast of wind and a few 
pellets of hail! What do you think, Davie?” 

“Oh, for me, I wouldn’t turn for ever so big a storm!” 
said Davie; “but you know, Arkie, it’s not you or me, 
Arkie! Mr. Grant is the captain of this expedition, and 
we must do as he bids us.” 

“Oh, surely, Davie! I never meant to dispute that. 
Only Mr. Grant is not a tyrant; he will let a lady say 
what she thinks!” 

“Oh, yes, or a boy either! He likes me to say what 
I think! He says we can’t get at each other without. And 
do you know — be obeys me sometimes.” 

Arctura glanced a keen question at the hoy. 

“It is quite true,” said Davie, while Donal listened, 
smiling. “Last winter, for days together — not all day, 
you know: I had to obey him most of the time; but at 
certain times, I was as sure of Mr. Grant doing as I told 
him as he is now of me doing as he tells me.” 

“What times were those?” asked. Arctura, thinking tp 
hear of some old pedagogic device. 


DONAL 0RAN1. 


225 


“When I was teaching him to skate!” answered Davie, 
in a triumph of remembrance. “He said I knew 
better than he there, and so he would obey me. You 
wouldn’t believe how splendidly he did it, Arkie — out 
and out!” concluded Davie, in a tone almost of awe. 

“Oh, yes, I would believe it — perfectly!” said Arctura. 

Donal suddenly threw an arm round each of them, and 
pulled them down sitting. The same instant a fierce 
blast burst upon the roof. He had seen the squall whiten- 
ing the sea, and looking nearer home saw the tops of the 
trees between streaming level toward the castle. But 
seated they were in no danger. 

“Hark!” said Arctura again ; “there it is!” 

They all heard the wailing cry of the ghost-music. But 
while the blast continued they dared not pursue their 
hunt. It kept on in fits and gusts till the squall ceased — 
as suddenly almost as it had burst. The sky cleared, and 
the sun shone as a March sun can. But the blundering 
blasts and the swan-shot of the flying hail were all about 
still. 

“When the storm is upon us,” remarked Donal as 
they rose from their crouching position, “it seems as if 
there never could be sunshine more; but our hopelessness 
does not keep back the sun when his hour to shine is 
come.” 

“I understand!” said Arctura: “when one is miserable, 
misery seems the law of being; and in the midst of it 
dwells some thought which nothing can ever set right! 
All at once it is gone, broken up and gone, like that hail- 
cloud. It just looks its own foolishness and vanishes.” 

“Do you know why things so often come right?” said 
Donal. “I would say always come right, but that is mat- 
ter of faith, not sight.” 

Arctura did not answer at once. 

“I think I know what you are thinking,” she said, 
“but I want to hear you answer your own question.” 

“Why do things come right so often, do you think, 
Davie?” repeated Donal. 

“Is it,” returned Davie, “because they were made right 
to begin with?” 

“There is much in that, Davie; but there is a better 
reason than that. It is because things are alive, and th§ 
life at the heart of them, that which keeps them goings 


2*6 


TONAL GRANT. 


is the great, beautiful God. So the sun forever returns 
after the clouds. A doubting man, like him who wrote 
the book of Ecclesiastes, puts the evil last, and says ‘the 
clouds return after the rain;’ but the Christian knows 
that 

“ ‘ One lias mastery 

Who makes the joy the last in every song.’ ” 

“You speak like one who has suffered!” said Arctura, 
with a kind look in his face. 

“Who has not that lives?” 

“It is how you are able to help others!” 

“Am I able to help others? I am very glad to hear it. 
My ambition would be to help, if I had any ambition. 
But if I am able, it is because I have been helped myself, 
not because I have suffered.” 

“Will you tell me what you mean by saying you have 
no ambition?” 

“Where your work is laid out for you, there is no room 
for ambition; you have got your work to do! But give 
me your hand, my lady; put your other hand on my 
shoulder. You stop there, Davie, and don’t move till I 
come to you. Now, my lady — a little jump! That’s it! 
Now you are safe! You were not afraid, were you?” 

“Not in the least. But did you come here in the 
dark?” 

“Yes. There is this advantage in the dark: you do 
not see how dangerous the way is. We take the darkness 
about us for the source of our difficulties: it is a great 
mistake. Christian would hardly have dared go through 
the Valley of the Shadow of Death had he not had the 
shield of the darkness all about him.” 

“Can the darkness be a shield? Is it not the evil 
thing?” 

“Yes, the dark that is within us— the dark of distrust 
and unwillingness, but not the outside dark of mere 
human ignorance. Where we do not see, we are pro- 
tected. Where we are most ignorant and most in danger 
is in those things that affect the life of God in us; there 
the Father is every moment watching his child. If he 
were not constantly pardoning and punishing our sins, 
what would become of us? We must learn to trust him 
about our faults as much as about everything else!” 

In the earnestness of his talk he had stopped, but now 
turned and went on. 


DONAL GRANT 


227 


“There is my land or roof mark rather, ” he said, “that 
chimney-stack! Close by it I heard the music very near 
me indeed — when all at once the darkness and the wind 
came together so thick that I could do nothing more. We 
shall do better now in the daylight — and three of us in- 
stead of one!’’ 

“What a huge block of chimneys !” said Arctura. 

“Is it not?” returned Donal. “It indicates the huge- 
aess of the building below us, of which we can see so 
little. Like the volcanoes of the world, it tells us how 
much tire is necessary to keep our dwelling warm.” 

“I thought it was the sun that kept the earth warm,” 
said Davie. 

“So it is, but not the sun alone. The earth is like a 
man: the great glowing tire is God in the heart of the 
earth, and the great sun is God in the sky, keeping it 
warm on the other side. Our gladness and pleasure, our 
trouble when we do wrong, our love for all about us, that 
is God inside us; and the beautiful things and lovable 
people, and all the lessons of life in history and poetry, 
in the Bible, and in whatever comes to us, that is God 
outside of us. Every life is between two great fires of the 
love of God. So long as we do not give ourselves up 
heartily to him, we fear his fire will burn us. And burn 
us it does when we go against its flames and not with 
them, refusing to burn with the fire with which God is 
always burning. When we try to put it out, or oppose 
it, or get away from it, then indeed it burns!” 

“I think I know,” said Davie. 

Arctura held her peace. 

“But now,” said Donal, “I must go round and have a 
peep at the other side of the chimney-stack.” 

He disappeared, and Arctura and Davie stood waiting 
his return. They looked each in the other’s face with 
the delight of consciously sharing a great adventure. Be- 
yond their feet lay the wide country and the great sea; 
over them the sky with the sun in it going down toward 
the mountains; under their feet the mighty old pile that 
was their home; and under that the earth with its molten 
heart of fire. 

But Davie’s look soon changed to one of triumph in his 
tutor. “Is it not grand,” it said, “to be all day with a man 


228 


DONAL GRANT 1 


like that — talking to yon and teaching you?’’ That at 
least was how Arctura interpreted it, reading in it almost 
an assertion of superiority, inasmuch as this man was his 
tutor and not hers. She replied to the look in words: 

“I am his pupil, too, Davie,” she said, “though Mr. 
Grant does not know it.” 

“How can that be,” answered Davie, “when you are 
afraid of him? I am not a bit afraid of him!” 

“How do you know I am afraid of him?” she asked. 

“Oh, anybody could see that!” 

She was afraid she had spoken foolishly, and Davie 
might repeat her words: she did not desire to hasten 
further intimacy with Donal; things were going in that 
direction fast enough ! Her eyes, avoiding Davie’s, kept 
reconnoitering the stack of chimneys. 

“Aren’t you glad to have such a castle all for your own 
— to do what you like with, Arkie? You know you could 
pull it all to pieces if you liked.” 

“Would it be less mine,” said Arctura, “if I was not at 
liberty to pull it all to pieces? And would it be more mine 
when I had pulled it to pieces, Davie?” 

Donal was coming round the side of the stack, and 
heard what she said. It pleased him, for it was not a 
little in his own style. 

“What makes a thing your own, do you think, Davie?” 
she went on. 

“To he able to do with it what you like,” replied Davie. 

“Whether that be good or bad?” 

“Yes, I think so,” answered Davie doubtfully. 

“Then I think you are quite wrong,” she rejoined. 
“The moment you begin to use a thing wrong, that mo- 
ment you make it less yours. I can’t quite explain it, 
but that is how it looks to me.” 

She ceased, and after a moment Donal took up the 
question. 

“Lady Arctura is quite right, Davie,” he said. “The 
nature, that is, the good of a thing, is that only by which 
it can be possessed. Any other possession is like slave- 
owning; it is not a righteous having. The right and the 
power to use it to its true purpose, and the using it so, 
are the conditions that make a thing ours. To have the 
right and the power, and not use it so, would be to make 
the thing less ours than anybody’s. Suppose you had a 


DONAL QUANT. 


229 


very beautiful picture, but from some defect in your sight 
you could never see that picture as it really was, while a 
servant in your house not only saw it as it was meant to 
be seen, but had such delight in gazing on it that even 
in his dreams it came to him, and made him think of 
things he would not have thought of but for it — which of 
you, you or the servant in your house, would have the 
more real possession of that picture? You could sell it 
away from yourself, and never know anything about it 
more; but you coaid not by all the power of a tyrant take 
it from your servant. ” 

“Ah, now I understand!” said Davie, with a look at 
Lady Arctura which seemed to say, “You see how Mr. 
Grant can make me understand!” 

“I wonder,” said Lady Arctura, “what that curious 
opening in the side of the chimney-stack means! It can’t 
be for smoke to come out at!” 

“No,” said Donal; “there is not a mark of smoke 
about it. If it had been meant for that, it would hardly 
have been put half-way from the top! I can’t make it 
out! A hole like that in any chimney must surely inter- 
fere with the draught! I must get a ladder!” 

“Let me climb on your shoulders, Mr. Grant,” said 
Davie. 

“Come, then; up you go!” said Donal. 

And up went Davie, and peeped into the horizontal slit. 

“It looks very like a chimney,” he said, turning his 
head and thrusting it in sideways. “It goes right down 
to somewhere,” he added, bringing his head out again, 
“but there is something across it a little way down — to 
prevent the jackdaws from tumbling in, I suppose.” 

“What is it?” asked Donal. 

“Something like a grating,” answered Davie; “no, not 
a grating exactly; it is what you might call a grating, 
but it seems made of wires. I don’t think it would keep 
a strong bird out if he wanted to get in.” 

“Aha!” said Donal to himself; “what if those wires 
be tuned! Did you ever see an aeolian harp, my lady?” 
he asked. “I never did.” 

“Yes,” answered Lady Arctura, “once when I was a 
little girl. And now you suggest it, I think the sounds 
we hear are not unlike those of an aeolian harp! The 
strings are all the same length, if I remember. But I do 


230 


DONAL GRANT. 


not understand the principle. They seem all to play 
together, and make the strangest, wildest harmonies 
when the wind blows across them in a particular way.” 

“I fancy then we have found the nest of our music- 
bird!” said Donal. “The wires Davie speaks of may be 
the strings of an aeolian harp! I wonder if there could be 
a draught across them! I must get up and see! I must 
go and get a ladder!” 

“But how could there be an aeolian harp up here?” said 
Arctura. 

“It will be time enough to answer that question,” re- 
plied Donal, “when it changes to ‘How did an aeolian 
harp get up here?’ Something is here that wants ac- 
counting for: it may be an aeolian harp!” 

“But in a chimney! The soot would spoil the strings!” 

“Then perhaps it is not a chimney: is there any sign of 
soot about, Davie?” 

“No, sir, there is nothing but clean stone and lime.” 

“You see, my lady! We do not even know that it is a 
chimney!” 

“What else can it be, standing with the rest?” 

“It may have been built for one; but if it had ever 
been used for one, the marks of smoke would remain, had 
it been disused ever so long. But to-morrow I will bring 
up a ladder.” 

“Could you not do it now?” said Arctura almost coax- 
ingly. “I should so like to have the thing settled!” 

“As you please, my lady! I will go at once. There is 
one leaning against the garden-wall, not far from the 
bottom of the tower.” 

“If you do not mind the trouble!” 

“I will come and help,” said Davie. 

“You mustn’t leave Lady Arctura. I am not sure if I 
can get it up the stair; I am afraid it is too long. If I 
cannot, we will haul it up as we did the coal.” 

He went, and the cousins sat down to wait his return. 
It was a cold evening, but Arctura was well wrapped up, 
and Davie was hardy. They sat at the foot of the chim- 
ney-stack, and began to talk. 

“It is such a long time since you told me anything, 
Arkie!” said the boy. 

“You do not need me now to tell you anything: you 
have Mr. Grant! You like him much better than ever 
you did me!” 


DONAL GRANT. 


231 


“You see,” said Davie thoughtfully, and making no 
defense against her half-reproach, “he began by making 
me afraid of him — not that he meant to do it, I think! he 
only meant that I should do what he told me: I was never 
afraid of you, Arkie!” 

“I was much crosser to you than Mr. Grant, I am sure!” 

“Mr. Grant is never cross to me; and if ever you were, 
I’ve forgotten it, Arkie. I only remember that I was not 
good to you. I am sorry for it now when lie I awake in 
bed; but I say to myself you forgive me, and go to sleep.” 

“What makes you think I forgive you, Davie?” 

“Because I love you.” 

This was not very logical, and set Arctura thinking. 
She did not forgive the boy because he loved her; but the 
boy’s love to her might make him sure she forgave him ! 
Love is its own justification, and sees itself in all its ob- 
jects: forgiveness is an essential belonging of love, and 
must be seen where love is seen. 

“Are you fond of my brother?” asked Davie, after a 
pause. 

“Why do you ask me?” 

“Because they say you and he are going to be married 
some day, yet you don’t seem to care much to be to- 
gether.” 

“It is all nonsense!” replied Arctura, reddening. “I 
wish people would not talk foolishness!” 

“Well, I do think he’s not so fond of you as of Eppy!” 

“Hush! hush! you must not speak of such things.” 

“I saw him once kiss Eppy, and I never saw him kiss 
you!” 

“No, indeed!” 

“Is it right of Forgue, if he’s going to marry you, to 
kiss Eppy? That’s what I want to know!” 

“He is not going to marry me.” 

“He would, if you told him you wished it. Papa 
wishes it.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“From many things. Once I heard him say, ‘After- 
ward, when the house is our own,’ and I asked him what 
he meant, and he said, ‘When Forgue marries Arctura, 
then the castle will be Forgue’s. That is how it ought to 
be, you know! Property and title ought never to be 
parted.’ ” 


m 


DONAL GRANT. 


The hot blood rose to Arctura’s temples: was she a 
mere wrappage to her property — the paper of the parcel? 
But she called to mind how strange her uncle was: but 
for that could be have been so imprudent as to talk in 
such a wav to a boy whose simplicity rendered the confi- 
dence dangerous? 

‘‘You would not like having to give away your castle — 
would you, Arkie?” he went on. 

“Not to any one I did not love.” 

“If I were you, I would not marry, but keep my castle 
to myself. I don’t see why Forgue should have your 
castle!” 

“You think I should make my castle my husband?” 

“He would be a good big husband anyhow, and a strong 
one to defend you from your enemies, and not talk to you 
when you wanted to be quiet.” 

“That is all true; but one might get weary of a stupid 
husband, however big and strong he was.” 

“There's another thing, though — he wouldn’t be a 
cruel husband! I’ve heard papa often speak about some 
cruel husbands! I fancied sometimes he meant himself: 
but that could not be, you know!” 

Arctura made no reply. All but vanished memories of 
things she had heard, hints and signs here and there that 
all was not right between her uncle and aunt, vaguely 
returned : could it be that he now repented of harshness 
to his wife, that the thought of it was preying upon him, 
that it drove him to his drugs for forgetfulness? But in 
the presence of the boy she could not go on thinking in 
such a direction about his father. She felt relieved by 
the return of Donal. 

He had found it rather difficult to get the ladder round 
the sharp curves of the stair; but at last they saw him 
with it on his shoulder coming over a distant roof. 

“Now we shall see!” he said as he leaned it up against 
the chimney, and stood panting. 

“You have tired yourself?” said Lady Arctura. 

“Where’s the harm, my lady? A man must get tired a 
few times before he lies down!” rejoined Donal lightly. 

Said Davie: 

“Must a woman, Mr. Grant, marry a man she does not 
love?” 

“No, certainly, Davie.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


233 


“Mr. Grant,” said Arctura, in dread of what Davie 
might say next, “what do you take to be the duty of one 
in/ieriting a property? Ought a woman to get rid of it, 
or attend to it herself?” 

Donal thought a little. 

“We must first settle the main duty of the property,” 
he said; “and that I am hardly prepared to do.” 

“Is there not a duty owing to your family?” 

“There are a thousand duties owing to your family.” 

“I don’t mean those you are living with merely, but 
those also who transmitted the property to you. This 
property belongs to my family rather than to me, and if I 
L~*d had a brother it would have gone to him: should I 
not do better for the family by giving it up to the next 
heir? I am not disinterested in starting the question; 
possession and power are of no great importance in my 
eyes; they are hindrances to me.” 

“It seems to me,” said Donal, “that the fact that you 
would not have succeeded had there been a son, points to 
the fact of a disposer of events: you were sent into the 
world to take the property. If so, God expects you to 
perform the duties of it; they are not to be got rid of by 
throwing the thing aside or giving them to another to 
do for you. If your family and not God were the real 
giver of the property, the question you put might arise; 
but I should hardly take interest enough in it to be capa- 
ble of discussing it. I understand my duty to my sheep 
or cattle, to my master, to my father or mother, to my 
brother or sister, to my pupil Davie here; I owe my an- 
cestors love and honor, and the keeping of their name 
unspotted, though that duty is forestalled by a higher; 
but as to the property they leave behind them, over which 
they have no more power, and which now I trust they 
never think about, Ido not see what obligation I can be 
under to them with regard to it, other than is comprised 
in the duties of the property itself.” 

“But a family is not merely those that are gone before; 
there are those that will come after!” 

“The best thing for those to come after is to receive 
the property with its duties performed, with the light of 
righteousness radiating from it.” 

“But what then do you call the duties of property?” 

“In what does the property consist?” 


234 


DONAL GRANT. 


“In land, to begin with.” 

“If the land were of no value, would the possession of 
it involve duties?” 

“I suppose not.” 

“In what does the value of the land consist?” 

Lady Arctura did not attempt an answer to the ques- 
tion, and Donal, after a little pause, resumed : 

“If you valued things as the world values them, 1 
should not care to put the question; but I fear you may 
have some lingering notion that though God’s way is the 
true way, the world’s way must not be disregarded. One 
thing, however, is certain — that nothing that is against 
God’s way can be true. The value of property consists 
only in its being means, ground, or material to work his 
will withal. There is no success in the universe but in 
his will being done.” 

Arctura was silent. She had inherited prejudices 
which, while she hated selfishness, were yet thoroughly 
selfish. Such are of the evils in us hardest to get rid of. 
They are even cherished for a lifetime by some of the 
otherwise loveliest of souls. Knowing that herein much 
thought would be necessary for her, and that she would 
think, Donal went no further: a house must have its 
foundation settled before it is built upon; argument where 
the grounds of it are at all in dispute is worse than use- 
less. 

He turned to his ladder, set it right, mounted, and 
peered into the opening. At the length of his arm he 
could reach the wires Davie had described: they were 
taut, and free of rust — were therefore not iron or steel. 
He saw also that a little down the shaft a faint light came 
in from the opposite side; there was another opening 
somewhere! Next he saw that each following string — for 
strings he already counted them — was placed a little lower 
than that before it, so that their succession was inclined 
to the other side of the shaft — apparently in a plane be- 
tween the two openings, that a draught might pass along 
their plane: this must surely be the instrument whence 
the music flowed! He descended. 

“Do you know, my lady,” he asked Arctura, “how the 
aeolian harp is placed for the wind to wake it?” 

“The only one I have seen,” she answered, “was made 
to fit into a window; the lower sash was opened just wide 


DONAL GRANT. 


235 


enough to let it in, so that the wind entering must pass 
across the strings.” 

Then Donal was all but certain. 

“Of course/’ he said, after describing what he had 
seen, “we cannot be absolutely sure without having been 
here with the music, and having experimented by cover- 
ing and uncovering the opening; and for that we must 
wait a southeasterly wind. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

COMMUNISM. 

But Donal did not feel that even then would he have 
exhausted the likelihood of discovery. That the source 
of the music that had so long haunted the house was an 
aeolian harp in a chimney that had never or scarcely been 
used might be enough to satisfy some, but he wanted to 
know as well why, if this was a chimney, it neither had 
been used nor was used, and to what room it was a chim- 
ney. For the question had come to him — might not the 
music hold some relation with the legend of the lost room? 

Inquiry after legendary lore had drawn nearer and 
nearer, and the talk about such as belonged to the castle 
had naturally increased. In this talk was not seldom 
mentioned a ghost, as yet seen at times about the place. - 
This Donal attributed to glimpses of the earl in his rest- 
less night- walks; but by the domestics, both such as had 
seen something and such as had not, the apparition was 
naturally associated with the lost chamber as the place 
whence the specter issued and whither he returned. 

Donal’s spare hours were now much given to his friend 
Andrew Comm. The good man had so far recovered as 
to think himself able to work again; but he soon found it 
was little he could do. His strengh was gone, and the 
exertion necessary to the lightest labor caused him pain. 
It was sad to watch him on his stool, now putting in a 
stitch, now stopping because of the cough which so sorely 
haunted his thin, wind-blown tent. His face had grown 
white and thin, and he had nearly lost his merriment, 
ihough not his cheerfulness; he never looked other than 
content. He had made up his mind he was not going to 


236 


DONAL GRANT. 


get better, but to go home through a lingering illness. 
He was ready to go and ready to linger, as God pleased. 

There was nothing wonderful in this; but to some good 
people even it did appear wonderful that he showed no 
uneasiness as to how Doory would fare when he was gone. 
The house was indeed their own, but there was no money 
in it — not even enough to pay the taxes; and if she sold 
it, the price would not be enough to live upon The 
neighbors were severe on Andrew’s imagined indifference 
to his wife’s future, and it was in their eyes a shame to 
be so cheerful on the brink of the grave. Not one of 
them had done more than peep into the world of faith in 
which Andrew lived. Not one of them could have under- 
stood that for Andrew to allow the least danger of evil to 
his Doory, would have been to behold the universe rock- 
ing on the slippery shoulders of Chance. 

A little moan escaping her as she looked one evening 
into her money-teapot made Donal ask her a question or 
two. She confessed that she had but sixpence left. Now, 
Donal had spent next to nothing since he came, and had 
therefore a few pounds in hand. His father and mother 
had sent back what he sent them, as being in need of 
nothing: Sir Gibbie was such a good son to them that 
they were living in what they counted luxury: Robert 
doubted whether he was not ministering to the flesh in 
allowing Janet to provide beef-brose for him twice in the 
week! So Donal was free to spend for his next neighbors 
— just what his people, who were grand about money, 
would have had him do. Never in their cottage had a 
penny been wasted; never one refused where was need. 

“An’rew,” he said — and found the mother-tongue 
here fittest — “I’m thinkin’ ye maun be growin' some 
short o’ siller i’ this time o’ warklessness?” 

“ ’Deed, I wadna won’er!” answered Andrew. “Doory 
says naething aboot sic triffles!” 

“Weel,” rejoined Donal, “I thank God I hae some i’ 
the ill pickle o’ no bein’ wantit, an’ sae in danger o’ 
cankerin’ ; an’ atween brithers there sudna be twa purses.” 

“Ye hae yer ain fowk to luik efter, sir!” said Andrew. 

“They’re weel luikit efter — better nor ever they war 
their lives; they’re as weel off as I am mysel’ up i’ yon 
gran’ castel. They hae a freen’ wha but for them wad 
ill hae liv^ to be tb# great mail he is the nop; an’ tbere’$ 


DONAL GRANT. 


237 


naething ower mnckle for him to du for them; sae my 
siller ’s my ain, an’ yours, An’rew, an’ Doory’s!” 

The old man put him through a catechism as to his 
ways and means and prospects, and finding that Donal 
believed as firmly as himself in the care of the Master, 
and was convinced there was nothing that Master would 
rather see him do with his money than help those who 
needed it, especially those who trusted in him, he yielded. 

“It’s no, ye see,” said Donal, “that I hae ony doobt o’ 
the Lord providin’ gien I had failt, but he bauds the 
thing to my han’, jist as muckle as gien he said, ‘There’s 
for you, Donal!’ The fowk o’ this warl’ michtna appruv, 
but you an’ me ken better, An’rew. We ken there’s 
nae guid in siller but to do the wull o’ the Lord wi’ ’t — 
an’ help to ane anither is his dear wull. It’s no ’at he’s 
short o’ siller himseP, but he likes to gie anither a turn!” 

“I’ll tak it,” said the old man. 

“There’s what I hae,” returned Donal. 

“Na, na; nane o’ that!” said Andrew. “Ye’re treatin’ 
me like a muckle, reivin’, sornin’ beggar — offerin’ me a’ 
that at ance! Whaur syne wad be the prolonged sweet- 
ness o’ haein’ ’t i’ portions frae yer han’, as frae the neb 
o’ an angel-corbie sent frae verra hame wi’ yer denner!” 
Here a glimmer of the old merriment shone through the 
worn look and pale eyes. “Na, na, sir,” he went on; 
“jist talk the thing ower wi’ Doorv, an’ lat her hae what 
she wants an’ nae mair. She wudna like it. Wha kens 
what may come i’ the mean time — Deith himsel’, maybe! 
Or see^gie Doory a five shillins, an’ whan that’s dune 
she can lat ye ken.” 

Donal was forced to leave it thus, but he did his utmost 
to impress upon Doory that all he had was at her disposal. 

“I had new clothes,” he said, “before I came; I have 
all I want to eat and drink; and for books, there’s a whole 
ancient library at my service! — what possibly could I wish 
for more? It’s a mere luxury to hand the money over to 
you, Doory! I’m thinkin’, Doory,” for he had by this 
time got to address her by her husband’s name for her, 
“there’s naebodv i’ this warl’, ’cep’ the oonseen Lord 
himseP, lo’es yer man sae weel as you an’ me; an’ weel 
ken I you an’ him wad share yer last wi’ me; sae I’m 
only giein’ ye o’ yer ain gude wull; an’ I’ll doobt that 
gien ye takna sae lang as I hae.” 


238 


DONAL GRANT. 


Thus adjured, and satisfied that her husband was con 
tent, the old woman made no difficulty. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

EPPY AND KENNEDY. 

When Stephen Kennedy heard that Eppy had gone 
back to her grandparents, a faint hope revived in his 
bosom; he knew nothing of the late passage between the 
two parties. He but knew that she was looking sad : she 
might perhaps allow him to be of some service to her! 
Separation had fostered more and more gentle thoughts 
of her in his heart; he was ready to forgive her every- 
thing, and believe nothing serious against her, if only she 
would let him love her again. Modesty had hitherto kept 
him from throwing himself in her way, but he now 
haunted the hoise in the hope of catching a glimpse of 
her, and when she began to go again into the town, saw 
her repeatedly, following her to be near her, but taking 
care she should not see him: partly from her self-absorp- 
tion he had succeeded in escaping her notice. 

At length, however, one night, he tried to summon up 
courage to accost her. It was a lovely, moonlit night, 
half the street black with quaint shadows, the other half 
shining like sand in the yellow light. On the moony side 
people standing at their doors could recognize each other 
two houses away, but on the other, friends might pass 
without greeting. Eppy had gone into the baker's; Ken- 
nedy had seen her go in, and stood in the shadow, waiting, 
all but determined to speak to her. She stayed a good 
while, but one accustomed to wait for fish learns patience. 
At length she appeared. By this time, however, though 
not his patience, Kennedy’s courage had nearly evapo- 
rated; and when he saw her he stepped under an archway, 
let her pass, and followed afresh. All at once resolve, 
which yet was no resolve, awoke in him. It was as if some 
one took him and set him before her. She started when 
he stepped in front, and gave a little cry. 

“Dinna be feart, Eppy,” he said; “I wudna hurt a 
hair o’ yer heid. I wud raither be skinned mysel’!” 

“Hang awa,” said Eppy. “Ye hae no richt to stan’ i’ 
my gait!” 


TONAL GRANT. 


239 


“Nane but the richt o’ lo’ein’ ye better nor ever!” 
said Kennedy — “gien sae be as ye’ll lat me ony gait 
shaw ’t!” 

The words softened her; she had dreaded reproach, if 
not indignant remonstrance. She began to cry. 

“Gien onything i’ my pooer wud mak the grief lichter 
upo’ ye, Eppy,” he said, “ye hae but to name ’t! I’m 
no gaum’ to ask ye to merry me, for that I ken ye dinna 
care aboot; but gien I micht be luikit upon as a freen’, 
if no to you, yet to yours — alloot onyw’y to help i’ yer 
trible; I mean, I’m ready to lay me i’ the dirt afore ye. 
I hae nae care for mysel’ ony mair, an’ maun do some- 
thing for somebody — an’ wha sae soon as yersel’, Eppy?” 

For sole answer, Eppy went on crying. She was far 
from happy. She had nearly persuaded herself that all 
was over between her and Lord Forgue, and almost she 
could, but for shame, have allowed Kennedy to comfort 
her as an old friend. Everything in her mind was so con- 
fused, and everything around her so miserable, that she 
could but cry. She continued crying, and as they were 
in a walled lane into which no windows looked, Kennedy, 
in the simplicity of his heart, and the desire to comfort 
her who little from him deserved comfort, came up to her, 
and putting his arm round her, said again: 

“Dinna be feart at me, Eppy. I’m a man ower sair- 
hertit to do ye ony hurt. It’s no as thinkin’ ye my ain, 
Eppy, I wud preshume to du onything for ye, hut as an 
auld freen’, fain to tak the dog atf o’ ye. Are ye in want 
o’ onything? Ye maun hae a heap o’ trible, I weel ken, 
wi’ yer gran’father’s mischance, an’ it’s easy to un’erstan’ 
’at things may weel be turnin’ scarce aboot ye; but be 
sure o’ this, that as lang’s my mither has onything, she’ll 
be blyth to share the same wi’ you an’ yours.” 

He said his mother, but she had nothing save what he 
provided her with. 

“I thank ye, Stephen,” said Eppy, touched with his 
goodness; “but there’s nae necessity; we hae plenty.” 

She moved on, her apron still to her eyes. Kennedy 
followed her. 

“Gien the yoong lord hae wranged ye ony gait,” he said 
from behind her, “an’ gien there be ony amen’s ye wad 
hae o’ him ” 

She turned with a quickness that was fierce, and in the 
dim light Kennedy saw her eyes blazing. 


240 


JDONAL GRANT. 


“I want naething frae your han’, Stephen Kennedy,” 
she said. “My lord’s naething to you — nor yet muckle 
to me!” she added, with sudden reaction and an outburst 
of self-pity, and again fell a-weeping — and sobbing now. 

With the timidity of a strong man before the girl he 
loves and therefore fears, Kennedy once more tried to 
comfort her, wiping her eyes with her apron. While he 
did so, a man, turning a corner quickly, came almost upon 
them. He started back, then came nearer, looked hard at 
them, and spoke. It was Lord Forgue. 

“Eppy!” he exclaimed, in a tone in which indignation 
blended with surprise. 

Eppy gave a cry and ran to him. He pushed her away. 

“My lord,” said Kennedy, “the lass will nane o’ me or 
mine. I sair doobt there’s nane but yersel’ can please 
her. But I sweir by God, my lord, gien ye du her ony 
wrang, I’ll no rest, nicht nor day, till I hae made ye re- 
pent it.” 

“Go to the devil!” said Forgue; “there’s an old crow, 
I suspect, yet to pluck between us! For me you may take 
her, though. I don’t go halves.” 

Eppy laid her hand timidly on his arm, but again he 
pushed her away. 

“Oh, my lord!” she sobbed, and could say no more for 
weeping. 

“How is it I find you here with this man?” he asked. 
“I don’t want to be unfair to you, but it looks rather 
bad!” 

“My lord ” said Kennedy. 

“Hold your tongue; let her speak for herself.” 

“I had no tryst wi’ him, my lord! 1 never said come 
nigh me,” sobbed Eppy. “Ye see what ye hae dune!” 
she cried, turning in anger on Kennedy, and her tears 
suddenly ceasing. “Never but ill hae ye brocht me! 
What business had ye to come efter me this gait, makin’ 
mischief atween my lord an’ me? Can a body no set fut 
ayont the door-sill, but they maun be followt.o’ them they 
wud see far eneuch?” 

Kennedy turned and went, and Eppy with a fresh 
burst of tears turned to go also. But she had satisfied 
Forgue that there was nothing between them, and he was 
soon more successful than Kennedy in consoling her. 

While absent he had been able enough to get on with- 


DONAL GRANT. 


241 


out her, but no sooner was he home than, in the weary 
lack of interest, the feelings which, half-lamenting, half- 
rejoicing, he had imagined extinct, began to revive, and 
he went to the town vaguely hoping to get a sight of 
Eppy. Coming upon her tete-a-tete with her old lover, 
first a sense of unpardonable injury possessed him, and 
next the conviction that he was as madly in love with her 
as ever. The tide of old tenderness came throbbing and 
streaming back over the ghastly sands of jealousy, and ere 
they parted he had made with her an appointment to 
meet the next night in a more suitable spot. 

Donal was seated by Andrew’s bedside reading: he had 
now the opportunity of bringing many things before him 
such as the old man did not know to exist. Those last 
days of sickness and weakness were among the most 
blessed of his life; much that could not be done for many 
a good man with ten times his education could be done 
for a man like Andrew Comin. 

Eppy had done her best to remove all traces of emotion 
ere she entered the house; but she could not help the 
shining of her eyes; the joy-lamp relighted in her bosom 
shone through them; and Andrew looking up when she 
entered, Donal, seated with his back to her, at once knew 
her secret: her grandfather read it from her face, and 
Donal read it from his. 

“She has seen Forgue!” he said to himself. “I hope 
the old man will die soon.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

HIGH AND LOW. 

When Lord Morven heard of his son’s return, he sent 
for Donal, received him in a friendly way, gave him to 
understand that, however he might fail to fall in with his 
views, he depended thoroughly on his honesty, and begged 
he wculd keep him informed of his son’s proceedings. 

Donal replied that while he fully acknowledged his 
lordship’s right to know what his son wfls doing, he could 
not take the office of a spy. 

“But I will warn Lord Forgue,” he concluded, “that 
I may see it right to let his father know what he is about. 
I fancy, however, he understands as much already.” 


242 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Pooh! that would be only to teach him cunning!” 
said the earl. 

“I can do nothing underhand, ” replied Donal. “I 
will help no man to keep an unrighteous secret, but 
neither will I secretly disclose it.” Meeting him a few 
days after, Forgue would have passed him without recog- 
nition, but Donal stopped him and said : 

“I believe, my lord, you have seen Eppy since your 
return.” 

“What the deuce is that to you?” 

“I wish your lordship to understand that whatever 
comes to* my knowledge concerning your proceedings in 
regard to her, I will report to your father if I see fit.” 

“The warning is unnecessary. Few informers, how- 
ever, would have given me the advantage, and I thank 
you: so far I am indebted to you. None the less the 
shame of the informer remains!” 

“Your lordship’s judgment of me is no more to me than 
that of yon rook up there.” 

“You doubt my honor?” said Forgue with a sneer. 

“I do. I doubt you. You do not 4 now yourself. 
Time will show. For God’s sake, my lord, look to your- 
self! You are in terrible danger.” 

“I would rather do wrong for love than right for fear. 
I scorn such threats.” 

“Threats, my lord!” echoed Donal. “Is it a threat to 
warn you that your very consciousness may become a 
curse to you? that to know yourself maybe your hell? 
that you may come to make it your first care to forget 
what you are? Do you know what Shakespeare says of 
Taquain: 

“ 4 Besides, bis soul’s fair temple is defaced; 

To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, 

To ask the spotted princess how she fares ’ ” 

“Oh, hang your preaching!” cried Forgue, and turned 
away. 

“My lord,” said Donal, “if you will not hear me, there 
are preachers you must.” 

“They will not.be quite so long-winded, then,” Forgue 
answered. 

“You are right,” said Donal; “they will not.” 

All Forgue’s thoughts were now occupied with the 


DONAL GRANT. 


243 


question how with least danger Eppy and he were to meet. 
He did not contemplate treachery. At this time of his 
life he could not have respected himself, little as was re- 
quired for that, had he been consciously treacherous; but 
no man who in love yet loves himself more is safe from 
becoming a traitor : potentially he is one already. Treach- 
ery to him who is guilty of it seems only natural self- 
preservation ; the man who can do a vile thing is incapable 
of seeing it as it is; and that ought to make us doubtful of 
our judgments of ourselves, especially defensive judg- 
ments. Forgue did not suspect himself — not although 
he knew that his passion had but just regained a lost 
energy, revived at the idea of another man having the 
girl! It did not shame him that he had begun to forget 
her, or that he had been so roused to fresh desire. If he 
had stayed away six months, he would practically have 
forgotten her altogether. Some may think that if he 
had devotion enough to surmount the vulgarities of her 
position and manners and ways of thought, his love could 
hardly be such as to yield so soon; but Eppy was not in 
herself vulgar. Many of even humbler education than she 
are far less really vulgar than some in the forefront of 
society. No doubt the conventionalities of a man like 
Forgue must have been sometimes shocked in familiar 
intercourse with one like Eppy; but while he was merely 
flirting with her, the very things that shocked would also 
amuse him — for I need hardly say he was not genuinely 
refined; and by and by the growing passion obscured 
them. There is no doubt that had she been confronted 
as his wife with the common people of society, he would 
have become aware of many things as vulgarities which 
were only simplicities; but in the mean time she was no 
more vulgar to him than a lamb or a baby is vulgar, how- 
ever unfit either for a Belgravian drawing-room. Vulgar, 
at the same time, he would have thought and felt her, 
but for the love that made him do her justice. Love is 
the opener as well as closer of eyes. But men who, hav- 
ing seen, become blind again, think they have had their 
eyes finally opened. 

For some time there was no change in Eppy’s behavior 
but that she was not tearful as before. She continued 
diligent, never grumbled at the hardest work, and seemed 
desirous of making up for remissness in the past, when in 


244 


DONAL GRANT. 


truth she was trying to make up for something else in the 
present; she would atone for what she would not teil by 
doing immediate duty with the greater devotion. But by 
and by she began occasionally to show, both in manner 
and countenance, a little of the old pertness, mingled with 
uneasiness. The phenomenon, however, was so inter- 
mittent and unpronounced as to be manifest only to eyes 
familiar with her looks and ways; to Donal it was clear 
that the relation between her and Forgue was resumed. 
Yet she never went out in the evening except sent by her 
grandmother, and then she always came home even with 
haste — anxious, it might have seemed, to avoid suspicion. 

It was the custom with Donal and Davie to go often 
into the field and woods in the fine weather — they called 
this their observation class — to learn what they might of 
the multitudinous goings on in this or tllat of nature’s 
workshops: there each for himself and the other exercised 
his individual powers of seeing and noting and putting 
together. Donal knew little of woodland matters, having 
been chiefly accustomed to meadows and bare hillsides; 
yet in the w 7 oods he was the keener of the two to observe, 
and could the better teach that he was but a better learner. 

One day, as they were walking together under the thin 
shade of a fir thicket, Davie sai-d, with sudden change of 
subject: 

“I wonder if we shall meet Forgue to-day! he gets up 
early now, and goes out. It is neither to fish nor shoot, 
for he doesn’t take his rod or gun; he must be watching 
or looking for something! Shouldn’t you say so, Mr. 
Grant?” 

This set Donal thinking. Eppy was never out at night, 
or only for a few minutes; and Forgue went out early in 
the morning! But if Eppy would meet him, how could 
he or any one help it? 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A LAST ENCOUNTER. 

Now for awhile Donal seldom saw Lady Arctura, and 
when he did, received from her no encouragement to 
address her. The troubled look had reappeared on her 


DONAL GRANT. 


245 


face. In her smile, as they passed in hall or corridor, 
glimmered an expression almost pathetic — something like 
an appeal, as if she stood in sore need of his help, but 
dared not ask for it. She was again much in the com- 
pany of Miss Carmichael, and Donal had good cause to 
fear that the pharisaism of her would-be directress was 
coming down upon her spirit, not like rain on the mown 
grass, but like frost on the spring flowers. The impossi- 
bility of piercing the Christian pharisee holding the tradi- 
tions of the elders in any vital part — so pachydermatous 
is he to any spiritual argument — is a sore trial to the old 
Adam still unslain in lovers of the truth. At the same 
time nothing gives patience better opportunity for her 
perfect work. And it is well they cannot be reached by 
argument and so persuaded; they would but enter the 
circles of the faithful to work fresh schisms and breed 
fresh imposthumes. 

But Donal had begun to think that he had been too for- 
bearing toward the hideous doctrines advocated by Miss 
Carmichael. It is one thing where evil doctrines are 
quietly held, and the truth associated with them assimi- 
lated by good people doing their best with what has been 
taught them, and quite another thing where they are 
forced upon some shrinking nature, weak to resist through 
the very reverence which is its excellence. The finer 
nature, from inability to think another of less pure intent 
than itself, is often at a great disadvantage in the hands 
of the coarser. He made up his mind that, risk as it was 
to enter into disputation with a worshiper of the letter, 
inasmuch as for argument the letter is immeasurably more 
available than the spirit — for while the spirit lies in the 
letter unperceived it has no force, and the letter-worshiper 
is incapable of seeing that God could not possibly mean 
what he makes of it — notwithstanding the risk, he resolved 
to hold himself ready, and if anything was given him, to 
cry it out and not spare. Nor had he long resolved ere 
the opportunity came. 

It had come to be known that Donal frequented the 
old avenue, and it was with intent, in the pride of her 
acquaintance with Scripture, and her power to use it, that 
Miss Carmichael one afternoon led her unwilling, rather 
recusant, and very unhappy disciple thither; she sought 
au encounter with him : his insolence toward the old- 


246 


DONAL GRANT. 


established faith must be confounded, his obnoxious in- 
fluence on Arctura frustrated! It was a bright autumnal 
day. The trees were sorely bereaved, but some foliage 
yet hung in thin yellow clouds upon their patient boughs. 
There was plenty of what Davie called scushlin , that is, 
the noise of walking with scarce lifted feet among the 
thick-lying withered leaves. But less foliage means more 
sunlight. 

Donal was sauntering along, his book in his hand, now 
and then reading a little, now and then looking up to the 
half-bared branches, now and then, like Davie, sweeping 
a cloud of the fallen multitude before him. He was in 
this childish act when, looking up, he saw the two ladies 
approaching; he did not see the peculiar glance Miss Car- 
michael threw her companion. ‘‘Behold your prophet!” 
it said. He would have passed with lifted bonnet, but 
Miss Carmichael stopped, smiling: her smile was bright 
because it showed her good teeth, but was not pleasant 
because it showed nothing else. 

“Glorying over the fallen, Mr. Grant?” she said. 

Donal in his turn smiled. 

“That is not Mr. Grant’s way,” said Arctura, “so far 
at least as I have known him!” 

“How careless the trees are of their poor children!” 
said Miss Carmichael, affecting sympathy for the leaves. 

“Pardon me,” said Donal, “if I grudge them your pity: 
there is nothing more of children in those leaves than 
there is in the hair that falls on the barber’s floor.” 

“It is not very gracious to pull a lady up so sharply!” 
returned Miss Carmichael, still smiling. “I spoke poetic- 
ally.” 

“There is no poetry in what is not true,” rejoined 
Donal. “Those are not the children of the tree.” 

“Of course,” said Miss Carmichael, a little surprised to 
And their foils crossed already, “a tree has no children! 
but ” 

“A tree no children!” exclaimed Donal. “What then 
are all those beech-nuts under the leaves? Are they not 
the children of the tree?” 

“Yes; and lost like the leaves!” sighed Miss Carmichael. 

“Why do you say they are lost? They must fulfill the 
end for which they were made, and if so, they cannot be 

lost.” 


DONAL GRANT 


24 ? 


‘‘For what end were they made?” 

“I do not know. If they all grew up, they would be a 
good deal in the way.” 

“Then you say there are more seeds than are required?” 

“How could I, when I do not know what they are re- 
quired for? How can I tell that it is not necessary for 
the life of the tree that it should produce them all, and 
necessary too for the ground to receive so much life-rent 
from the tree?” 

“But you must admit that some things are lost!” 

“Yes, surely!” answered Donal. “Why else should he 
come and look till he find?” 

No such answer had the theologian expected; she was 
not immediate with her rejoinder. 

“But some of them are lost after all!” she said. 

“Doubtless; there are sheep that will keep running 
away. But he goes after them again.” 

“He will not do that forever!” 

“He will.” 

“I do not believe it.” 

“Then you do not believe that God is infinite!” 

“I do.” 

“How can you? Is he not the Lord God merciful and 
gracious?” 

“I am glad you know that.” 

“But if his mercy and his graciousness are not infinite, 
then he is not infinite.” 

“There are other attributes in which he is infinite.” 

“But he is not infinite in all his attributes! He is 
partly infinite and partly finite — infinite in knowledge 
and power, but in love, in forgiveness, in all those things 
which are the most beautiful, the most divine, the most 
Christ-like, he is finite, measurable, bounded, small!” 

“I care nothing for such finite reasoning. I take the 
word of inspiration, and go by that!” 

“Let me hear then,” said Donal, with an uplifting of his 
heart in prayer; for it seemed no light thing for Arctura 
which of them should show the better reason. 

Now it had so fallen that the ladies were talking about 
the doctrine called adoption when first they saw Donal; 
whence this doctrine was the first to occur to the cham- 
pion of orthodoxy as a weapon wherewith to foil the 
enemy. 


248 


DONAL GRANT. 


‘‘The most precious doctrine, if one may say so, in the 
whole Bible, is that of adoption. God by the mouth of 
his apostle Paul tells us that God adopts some for his 
children, and leaves the rest. If because of this you say 
he is not infinite in mercy, when the Bible says he is, you 
are guilty of blasphemy.” 

In a tone calm to solemnity, Donal answered : 

“God’s mercy is infinite; and the doctrine of adop- 
tion is one of the falsest of false doctrines. In bitter lack 
of the spirit whereby we cry, Alba , Father , the so-called 
church invented it; and it remains, a hideous mask where- 
with false and ignorant teachers scare God’s children 
from their Father’s arms.” 

“I hate sentiment — most of all in religion!” said Miss 
Carmichael with contempt. 

“You shall have none,” returned Donal. “Tell me 
what is meant by adoption.” 

“The taking of children,” answered Miss Carmichael, 
already spying a rock ahead, “and treating them as your 
own.” 

“Whose children?” asked Donal. 

“Any one’s.” 

“Whose,” insisted Donal, “are the children whom God 
adopts?” 

She was on the rock and a little staggered. But she 
pulled up courage and said : 

“The children of Satan.” 

“Then how are they to be blamed for doing the deeds 
of their father?” 

“You know very well what I mean! Satan did not 
make them. God made them, but they sinned and fell.” 

“Then did God repudiate them?” 

“Yes.” 

“And they became the children of another?” 

“Yes, of Satan.” 

“Then God disowns his children, and when they are 
the children of another adopts them? Miss Carmichael, 
it is too foolish! Would that be like a father? Because 
his children do not please him, he repudiates them alto- 
gether; and then he wants them again — not as his own, 
but as the children of a stranger, whom he will adopt! 
The original relationship is no longer of any force — has 
no weight even with their very own father! What ground 
could such a parent have to complain of his children?” 


DONAL GRANT. 


249 


“You dare not say the wicked are the children of God 
the same as the good.” 

“That be far from me! Those who do the will of God 
are infinitely more his children than those who do not; 
they are horn of the innermost heart of God; they are 
then of the nature of Jesus Christ, whose glory is obedi- 
ence. But if they were not in the first place, and in the 
most profound fact, the children of God, they could never 
become his children in that higher, that highest sense, by 
any fiction of adoption. Do you think if the devil could 
create, his children could ever become the children of 
God? But you and I, and every pharisee, publican, and 
sinner in the world, are equally the children of God to 
begin with. That is the root of all the misery and all the 
hope. Because we are his children, we must become his 
children in heart and soul, or be forever wretched. If we 
cease to be his, if the relation between us were destroyed, 
which is impossible, no redemption would be possible, 
there would be nothing left to redeem.” 

“You may talk as you see fit, Mr. Grant, but while 
Paul teaches the doctrine, I will hold it; he may perhaps 
know a little better than you.” 

“Paul teaches no such doctrine. He teaches just what 
I have been saying. The word translated adoption, he 
uses for the raising of one who is a son to the true posi- 
tion of a son.” 

“The presumption in you to say what the apostle did 
or did not mean!” 

“Why, Miss Carmichael, do you think the gospel comes 
to us as a set of fools? Is there any way of truly or 
worthily receiving a message without understanding it? 
A message is sent for the very sake of being in some 
measure at least understood. Without that it would be 
no message at all. I am bound by the will and express 
command of the Master to understand the things he says 
to me. He commands me to see their rectitude, because 
they being true, I ought to be able to see them true. In 
the hope of seeing as he would have me see, I read my 
Greek Testament every day. But it is not necessary to 
know Greek to see what Paul means by the so-translated 
adoption. You have only to consider his words with 
intent to find out his meaning, and without intent to find 
in them the teaching of this or that doctrine of divinity. 


250 


DONAL GRANT. 


In the epistle to the Galatians, whose child does he speak 
of as adopted? It is the father’s own child, his heir, who 
differs nothing from a slave until he enters upon his true 
relation to his father — the full status of a son. So also, 
in another passage, by the same word he means the re- 
demption of the body — its passing into the higher condi- 
tion of outward things, into a condition in itself, and a 
home around it, fit for the sons and daughters of God — 
that we be no more like strangers, but like what we are, 
the children of the house. To use any word of Paul’s to 
make human being feel as if he were not by birth, mak- 
ing, origin, or whatever word of closer import can be 
found, the child of God, or as if anything he had done or 
could do could annul that relationship, is of the devil, 
the father of evil, not either of Paul or of Christ. Why, 
mv lady,” continued Donal, turning to Arctura, “all the 
evil lies in this — that he is our father and we are not his 
children. To fulfill the poorest necessities of our being, 
we must be his children in brain and heart, in body and 
soul and spirit, in obedience and hope and gladness and 
love — his'out and ^ut, beyond all that tongue can say, 
mind think, or heart desire. Then only is our creation 
finished — then only are we what we were made to be. 
This is that for the sake of which we are troubled on all 
sides.” 

He ceased. Miss Carmichael was intellectually cowed, 
but her heart was nowise touched. She had never had 
that longing after closest relation with God which sends 
us feeling after the father. But now, taking courage 
under the overshadowing wing of the divine, Arctura 
spoke. 

“I do hope what you say is true, Mr. Grant!” she said 
with a longing sigh. 

“Oh, yes, hope! we all hope! But it is the word we 
have to do with!” said Miss Carmichael. 

“I have given you the truth of this word!” said Donal. 

But as if she heard neither of them, Arctura went on: 

“If it were but true!” she moaned. “It would set 
right everything on the face of the earth!” 

“You mean far more than that, my lady!” said Donal. 
“You mean everything in the human heart, which will to 
all eternity keep moaning and crying out for the Father 
of it until it is one with its one relation!” 


DONAL QRANT 


251 


He lifted his bonnet and would have passed on. 

“One word, Mr. Grant,” said Miss Carmichael. “No 
man holding such doctrines could with honesty become a 
clergyman of the Church of Scotland.” 

“Very likely,” replied Donal. “Good-afternoon.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Grant!” said Arctura. “I hope you 
are right.” 

When he was gone, the ladies resumed their walk in 
silence. At length Miss Carmichael spoke. 

“Well, I must say, of all the conceited young men I 
have had the misfortune to meet, your Mr. Grant bears 
the palm! Such self-assurance! such presumption! such 
forwardness!” 

“Are you certain, Sophia,” rejoined Arctura, “that it 
is self-assurance and not conviction that gives him his 
courage?” 

“He is a teacher of lies! He goes dead against all that 
good men say and believe! The thing is as clear as day- 
light: he is altogether wrong!” 

“What if God be sending fresh light into the minds of 
his people?” 

“The old light is good enough for me!” 

“But it may not be good enough for God! What if 
Mr. Grant should be his messenger to you and me?” 

“A likely thing! A raw student from the hills of 
Daurside!” 

“I cherish a profound hope chat he may be in the right. 
Much good, you know, did come out of Galilee! Every 
place and every person is despised by somebody!” 

“Arctura! He has infected you with his frightful 
irreverence!” 

“If he be a messenger of Jesus Christ,” said Arctura 
quietly, “he has had from you the reception he would 
expect, for the disciple must be as his master.” 

Miss Carmichael stood still abruptly. Her face was in 
a flame, but her words came cold and hard. 

“I am sorry,” she said, “our friendship should come 
to so harsh a conclusion, Lady Arctura; but it is time it 
should end when you speak so to one who has been doing 
her best for so long to enlighten you ! If this be the first 
result of your new gospel— well! Kemember who said, 
‘If an angel from heaven preach any other gospel to you 
than I have preached, let him be accursed!’ ” 


262 


DONAL GRANT. 


She turned back. 

“Oh, Sophia, do not leave me so!” cried Arctura. 

But she was already yards away, her skirt making a 
small whirlwind that went after her through the withered 
leaves. Arctura burst into tears, and sat down at the 
foot of one of the great beeches. Miss Carmichael never 
looked behind her. She met Donal again, for he too had 
turned: he uncovered, but she took no heed. She had 
done with him! Her poor Arctura! 

Donal was walking gently on, thinking, with closed 
book, when the wind bore to his ear a low sob from 
Arctura. He looked up and saw her: she sat weeping 
like one rejected. He could not pass or turn and leave 
her thus! She heard his steps in the withered leaves, 
glanced up, dropped her head for a moment, then rose 
with a feeble attempt at a smile. Donal understood the 
smile: she would not have him troubled because of what 
had taken place! 

“Mr. Grant,” she said, coming toward him, “St. Paul 
laid a curse upon even an angel from heaven if he 
preached any other gospel than his! It is terrible!” 

“It is terrible, and I say amen to it with all my heart,” 
returned Donal. “But the gospel you have received is 
not the gospel of Paul; it is one substituted for it — and 
that by no angel from heaven, but by men with hide- 
bound souls, who, in order to get them into their own 
intellectual pockets, melted down the ingots of the king- 
dom, and recast them in molds of wretched legalism, 
borrowed of the Romans who crucified their Master. 
Grand, childlike heavenly things they must explain, for- 
sooth, after vulgar worldly notions of law and right! But 
they meant well, seeking to justify the ways of God to 
men, therefore the curse of the apostle does not fall, I 
think, upon them. They sought a way out of their diffi- 
culties, and thought they had found one, when in reality it 
was their faith in God himself that alone got them out of 
the prison of their theories. But gladly would I see dis- 
comfited such as, receiving those inventions at the hun- 
dredth hand, and moved by none of the fervor with which 
they were first promulgated, lay, as the world and will of 
God, lumps of iron and heaps of dust upon live, beating, 
longing hearts that cry out after their God!” 

“Oh, I do hope what you say is true!” panted Arctura. 
“I think I shall die if I find it is not!” 


DONAL GRANT. 


25 h 


“If you find what I tell you untrue, it will only be that 
it is not grand and free and bounteous enough. To think 
anything too good to be true is to deny God — to say the 
untrue may be better than the true — that there might be 
a greater God than he. Remember, Christ is in the world 
still, and within our call.” 

“I will think of what you tell me,” said Arctura, hold- 
ing out her hand. 

“If anything in particular troubles you,” said Donal, 
“I shall be most glad to help you if I can; but it is better 
there should not be much talking. The thing lies be- 
tween you and your Father.” 

With these words he left her. Arctura followed slowly 
to the house, and she went straight to her room, her mind 
filling as she went with slow-reviving strength and a great 
hope. No doubt some of her relief came from the depar- 
ture of her incubus friend; but that must soon have van- 
ished in fresh sorrow, save for the hope and strength to 
which this departure yielded the room. She trusted that 
by the time she saw her again she would be more firmly 
grounded concerning many things, and able to set them 
forth aright. She was not yet free of the notion that you 
must be able to defend your convictions; she scarce felt 
at liberty to say she believed a thing, so long as she knew 
an argument against it which she could not show to be 
false. Alas for our beliefs if they go no further than the 
poor horizon of our experience or our logic, or any possi- 
ble wording of the beliefs themselves! Alas for ourselves 
if our beliefs are not what we shape our lives, onr actions, 
our aspirations, our hopes, our repentances by! 

Donal was glad indeed to hope that now at length an 
open door stood before the poor girl. He had been grow- 
ing much interested in her, as one on whom life lay heavy, 
one who seemed ripe for the kingdom of heaven, yet in 
whose way stood one who would neither enter herself nor 
allow her to enter that would. She was indeed fit for 
nothing but the kingdom of heaven, so much was she 
already the child of Him whom, longing after him, she 
had not yet dared to call her father. His regard for her 
was that of the gentle strong toward the weak he would 
help; and now that she seemed fairly started on the path 
♦of life, the path, namely, to the knowledge of Him who 
is the life, his care over her grew the more tender. It is 


254 


DONAL GRANT. 


the part of the strong to serve the weak, to minister that 
whereby they too may grow strong. But he rather than 
otherwise avoided meeting her, and for a good many days 
they did not so much as see each other. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

A HORRIBLE ST ORY. 

The health of the earl remained fluctuating. Its condi- 
tion depended much on the special indulgence. There 
was hardly any sort of narcotic with which he did not at 
least make experiment, if he did not indulge in it. He 
made no pretense even to himself of seeking therein the 
furtherance of knowledge; he wanted solely to find how this 
or that, thus or thus modified or combined, would contribute 
to his living a life such as he would have it, and other quite 
than that ordered for him by a power which least of all 
powers he chose to acknowledge. The power of certain 
drugs he was eager to understand : the living source of 
him and them and their correlations he scarcely recog- 
nized. This came of no hostility to religion other than 
the worst hostility of all — that of a life irresponsive to its 
claims. He believed neither like saint nor devil; he be- 
lieved and did not obey, he believed and did not yet 
tremble. 

The one day he was better the other worse, according, as I 
say, to the character and degree of his indulgence. At one 
time it much affected his temper, taking from him all mas- 
tery of himself; at another made him so dull and stupid 
that he resented nothing except any attempt to rouse him 
from his hebetude. Of these differences he took unfailing 
note; but the worst influence of all was a constant one, 
and of it he made no account; however the drugs might 
vary in their operations upon him, to one thing they all 
tended — the destruction of his moral nature. 

Urged more or less all his life by a sort of innate re- 
bellion against social law, he had done great wrongs — 
whether also committed what are called crimes, I cannot 
tell; no repentance had followed the remorse their conse- 
quences had sometimes occasioned. And now the possi-* 
bility of remorse even was gradually forsaking him. Such 


DONAL GRANT. 


255 


a man belongs rather to the kind demoniacal than the 
kind human; yet so long as nothing occurs giving to his 
possible an occasion to embody itself in the actual, he may 
live honored and die respected. There is always, not the 
less, the danger of his real nature, or rather unnature, 
breaking out in this way or that diabolical. 

Although he went so little out of the house, and appar- 
ently never beyond the grounds, he yet learned a good 
deal at times of things going on in the neighborhood: 
Davie brought him news; so did Simmons; and now and 
then he would have an interview with his half-acknowl- 
edged relative, the factor. 

One morning before he was up, he sent for Donal and 
requested him to give Davie a half-holiday, and do some- 
thing for him instead. 

“You know, or perhaps you don’t know, that I have a 
house in the town,” he said, “the only house, indeed, 
now belonging to the earldom — a not very attractive house 
which you must have seen — on the main street, a little 
before you come to the Morven Arms.” 

“I believe I know the house, my lord,” answered 
Donal, “with strong iron stanchions to the lower windows, 

and ” 

“Yes, that is the house; and I dare say you have heard 
the story of it — I mean how it fell into its present dis- 
grace! The thing happened more than a hundred years 
ago. But I have spent some nights in it myself notwith- 
standing.” 

“I should like to hear it, my lord,” said Donal. 

“You may as well have it from myself as from another! 
It does not touch any of us, for the family was not then 
represented by the same branch as now; I might else be 
thin-skinned about it. No mere legend, mind you, but a 
very dreadful fact, which resulted in the abandonment of 
the house! I think it time, for my part, that it should 
be forgotten and the house let. It was before the castle 
and the title parted company; that is a tale worth telling 
too! there was little fair play in either! but I will not 
trouble you with it now. 

“Into the generation above ground,” the earl began, 
assuming a book-tone the instant he began to narrate, “by 
one of those freaks of nature specially strange and more 
inexplicable than the rest, had been born an original 


256 


DONAL GRANT. 


savage. You know that the old type, after ever so many 
modifications have been wroaght upon it, will sometimes 
reappear in its ancient crudity amid the latest develop- 
ment of the race, animal and vegetable too, I suppose! — 
well, so it was now: I use no figure of speech when I say 
that the apparition, the phenomenon was a savage. I do 
not mean that he was an exceptionally rough man for his 
position, but for any position in the Scotland of that age. 
No doubt he was regarded as a madman and used as a 
madman; but my opinion is the more philosophical — that, 
by an arrest of development, into the middle of the ladies 
and gentlemen of the family came a veritable savage, and 
one out of no darkest age of history, but from beyond all 
record — out of the awful prehistoric times ” 

His lordship visibly and involuntarily shuddered, as at 
the memory of something he had seen: into that region 
he had probably wandered in his visions. 

“He was a fierce and furious savage — worse than any- 
thing you can imagine. The only sign of any influence 
of civilization upon him was that he was cowed by the eye 
of his keeper. Never, except by rarest chance, was he 
left alone and awake: no one could tell what he might 
not do! 

“He was of gigantic size, with coarse black hair — the 
brawniest fellow and the ugliest, they say — for you may 
suppose my description is but legendary: there is no por- 
trait of him on our walls! — with a huge, shapeless, cruel, 
greedy mouth 99 

As his lordship said the words, Donal, with involuntary 
insight, saw both cruelty and greed in the mouth that 
spoke, though it was neither huge nor shapeless. 

“Lips hideously red and large, with the whitest teeth 
inside them. I give you the description, ” said his lord- 
ship, who evidently lingered not without pleasure on the 
details of his recital, “just as I used to hear it from my 
old nurse, who had been all her life in the family, and 
had it from her mother, who was in it at the time. His 
great passion, his keenest delight, was animal food. He 
ate enormously — more, it was said, than three hearty men. 
An hour after he had gorged himself, he was ready to 
gorge again. Roast meat was his main delight, but he 
was fond of broth also. He must have been more like 
Mrs, Shelley's creation in ‘Frankenstein’ than any other, 


DONAL GRANT. 


257 


All the time I read that story, I had the vision of my far- 
off cousin constantly before me, as I saw him in my mind’s 
eye when my nurse described him; and often I wondered 
whether Mrs. Shelley could have heard of him. In an 
earlier age and more practical, they would have got rid of 
him by a readier and more thorough means, if only for 
shame of having brought such a beast into the world, but 
they sent him with his keeper, a little man with a power- 
ful eye, to that same house down in the town there; in an 
altogether solitary place they could persuade no man to 
live with him. At night he was always secured to his 
bed, otherwise his keeper would not have had courage to 
sleep, for he was as cunning as he was hideous. When he 
slept during the day, which he did frequently after a 
meal, his attendant contented himself with locking his 
door and keeping his ears awake. At such times only 
did he venture to look on the world : he would step just 
outside the street-door, but would neither leave it nor 
shut it behind him, lest the savage should perhaps escape 
from his room, bar it, and set the house on fire. 

“One beautiful Sunday morning, the brute, after a 
good breakfast, had fallen asleep on his bed, and the 
keeper had gone downstairs and was standing in the 
street with the door open behind him. All the people 
were at church, and the street was empty as a desert. He 
stood there for some time, enjoying the sweet air and the 
scent of the flowers, went in and got a light to his pipe, 
put coals on the fire, saw that the huge caldron of broth 
which the cook had left in his charge when he went to 
church — it was to serve for dinner and supper both— was 
boiling beautifully, went back, and again took his station 
in front of the open door. Presently came a neighbor 
woman from her house, leading by the hand a little girl 
too young to go to church. She stood talking with him 
for some time. 

“Suddenly she cried : ‘Good Lord! what’s come o’ the 
bairn ?’ The same instant came one piercing shriek — from 
some distance it seemed. The mother darted down the 
neighboring close. But the keeper saw that the door be- 
hind him was shut, and was filled with horrible dismay. 
He darted to an entrance in the close, of which he always 
kept the key about him, and went straight to the kitchen, 
jhere by tb© fire Stood the savage, gazing with a fisefj 


258 


DONAL GRANT. 


fishy eye of rapture at the caldron which the steam, issu- 
ing in little sharp jets from under the lid, showed to be 
boiling furiously, with grand prophecy of broth. Ghastly 
horror in his very bones, the keeper lifted the lid — and 
there, beside the beef, with the broth bubbling in waves 
over her, lay the child! The demon had torn off her 
frock and thrust her into the boiling liquid! 

“There rose such an outcry that they were compelled to 
put him in chains and carry him no one knew whither; 
but nurse said he lived to old age. Ever since, the house 
has been uninhabited, with, of course, the reputation of 
being haunted. If you happen to be in its neighborhood 
when it begins to grow dark, you may see the children 
hurry past it in silence, now and then glancing back in 
dread, lest something should have opened the never- 
opened door, and be stealing after them. They call that 
something ‘The Bed Etin’ — only this ogre was black, I am 
sorry to say; red was the proper color for him.” 

“It is a horrible story!” said Donal. 

“I want you to go to the house for me: you do not 
mind going, do you?” 

“Not in the least,” answered Donal. 

“I want you to search a certain bureau there for some 
papers. By the way, have you any news to give me about 
Forgue?” 

“No, my lord,” answered Donal. “I do not even know 
whether or not they meet, but I am afraid.” 

“Oh, I dare say,” rejoined his lordship, “the whim is 
wearing off! One pellet drives out another. Behind the 
love in the popgun came the conviction that it would be 
simple ruin! But we Graemes are stiff-necked both to 
God and man, and I don’t trust him much.” 

“He gave you no promise, if you remember, my lord.” 

“I remember very well; why the deuce should I not re- 
member? I am not in the way of forgetting things! No, 
by God! nor forgiving them either! Where there’s any- 
thing to forgive there’s no fear of my forgetting!” 

He followed the utterance with a laugh, as if he would 
have it pass for a joke, but there was no ring in the laugh. 

He then gave Donal detailed instructions as to where the 
bureau stood, how he was to open it with a curious key 
which he told him where to find in the room, how also to 
open the secret part of the bureau in which the papers lay. 


DONAL GRANT. 


259 


“Forget!” he echoed, turning and sweeping back on 
his train. “I have not been in that house for twenty 
years: you can judge whether I forget! No!” he added 
with an oath, “if I found myself forgetting I should think 
it time to look out; but there is no sign of that yet, thank 
God! There! take the keys, and be off! Simmons will 
give you the key of the house. You had better take that 
of the door in the close: it is easier to open.” 

Donal went away wondering at the pleasure his fright- 
ful tale afforded the earl: he had seemed positively to 
gloat over the details of it! These were much worse than 
I have recorded : he showed special delight in narrating 
how the mother took the body of her child out of the pot! 

He sought Simmons and asked him for the key. The 
butler went to find it, but returned saying he could not 
lay his hands upon it; there was, however, the key of the 
front door: it might prove stiff! Donal took it, and hav- 
ing oiled it well, set out for Morven House. But on his 
way he turned aside to see the Comins. 

Andrew looked worse, and he thought he must be sink- 
ing. The moment he saw Donal he requested they might 
be left alone for a few minutes. 

“My yoong freen’,” he said, “the Lord has favored me 
greatly in grantin’ my last days the licht o’ your coonte- 
nance. I hae learnt a heap frae ye ’at I kenna hoo I could 
hae come at wantin’ ye.” 

“Eh, Anerew!” interrupted Donal, “I dinna weel ken 
hoo that can be, for it aye seemt to me ye had a’ the 
knowledge ’at was gaein’!” 

“The man can ill taich wha’sno gaein’ on learnin’; an’ 
maybe whiles he learns mair frae his scholar nor the 
scholar learns frae him. But it’s a’ frae the Lord; the 
Lord is that speerit — an’ first o’ a’ the speerit o’ obedi- 
ence, wi’oot which there’s no learnin’. Still, my son, it 
may comfort ye a wee i’ the time to come, to think the 
auld cobbler Anerew Comin gaed intil the new warl’ fitter 
company for the help ye gied him afore he gaed. May 
the Lord mak a sicht o’ use o’ ye! Fowk say a heap aboot 
savin’ sowls, but ower aften, I doobt, they help to tak frae 
them the sense o’ hoo sair they’re in want o’ savin’. Sure- 
ly a man sud ken in himseF mair an’ mair the need o’ bein’ 
saved, till he cries oot an’ shoots, ‘I am saved, for there’s 
nane in h’aven but thee, an’ there’s nane upo’ the earth 


260 


DONAL OR ANT. 


I desire beside thee! Man, wuman, child, an’ live cratnr, 
is but a portion o’ thee, whauron to lat the love o’ thee 
rin ower!’ Whan a man can say that, he’s saved: an’ no 
till than, though for lang years he may hae been aye 
cornin’ nearer to that goal o’ a’ houp, the hert o’ the 
Father o’ me, an’ you, an’ Doory, an’ Eppy, an’ a’ the 
nations o’ the earth!” 

He stopped weary, but his eyes, fixed on Donal, went 
on where his voice had ended, and for a time Donal 
seemed to hear what his soul was saying, and to hearken 
with content. But suddenly their light went out, the old 
man gave a sigh, and said: 

“It’s ower for this warl’, my freen’. It’s cornin’ — the 
hoor o’ darkness. But the thing ’at’s true whan the licht 
shines is as true i’ the dark: ye canna work, that’s a’. 
God ’ill gie me grace to lie still. It’s a’ ane. I wud lie 
jist as I used to sit, i’ the days whan I men’it fowk’s 
shune, an’ Doory happent to tak awa’ the licht for a mo- 
ment — I wud sit aye luikin’ doon throuw the mirk at my 
wark, though I couldna see a stime o’ ’t,’ the alison [awl] 
i’ my han’ ready to put in the neist steek the moment the 
licht fell upo’ the spot whaur it was to gang. That’s hoo 
I wud lie whan I’m deein’, jist waitin’ for the licht, no 
for the dark, an’ makin’ an incense offerin’ o’ my patience 
whan I hae naething ither to offer, naither thoucht nor 
glaidness nor sorrow, naething but patience burnin’ in 
pain. He’ll accep’ that; for, my son, the Maister’s jist 
as easy to please as he’s ill to saitisfee. Ye hae seen a 
mitber ower her wee lassie’s sampler? She’ll praise an’ 
praise ’t, an’ be richt pleast wi’ ’t; but wow gien she was 
to be content wi’ the thing in her ban’ ! the lassie’s man, 
whan she cam to hae ane, wud hae an ill time o’ ’t wi’ his 
hose an’ his sarks! But noo I hae a favor to beg o’ ye — 
no for my sake but for hers: gien ye hae the warnin’, ye’ll 
be wi’ me whan I gang? It may be a comfort to mysel’ — 
I dinna ken — nane can tell ’at hasna dee’d afore— nor 
even than, for deiths are sae different! — doobtless Laz- 
arus’ twa deiths war far frae alike! but it’ll be a great 
comfort to Doory — I’m clear upo’ that. She winna fin’ 
hersel’ sae lanesome like, losin’ sicht o’ her auld man, 
gien the freen’ o’ his hert be aside ber whan he gangs.” 

“Please God, I’ll be at yer comman’,” said Donal. 

“Noo cry upo’ Doory, for I wudna see less o’ her nor I 


DONAL GRANT \ 


261 


may. It may be years afore I get a sicht o’ her lo’in* 
face again! But the same Lord ’s in her an’ i’ me, an’ 
we canna far be sun’ert, hooever lang the time afore we 
meet again . 39 

Donal called Doory, and took his leave. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

MORVEH HOUSE. 

Opposite Morven House was a building which had at 
one time been the stables to it, but was now. part of a 
brewery; a high wall shut it off from the street; it was 
dinner-time with the humbler people of the town, and 
there was not a soul visible when Donal put the key in 
the lock of the front door, opened it, and went in; he 
had timed his entrance so, desiring to avoid idle curiosity, 
and bring no gathering feet about the house. Almost on 
tiptoe he entered the lofty hall, high above the first story. 
The dust lay thick on a large marble table — but what was 
that? a streak across it, brushed sharply through the 
middle of the dust! It was strange! But he would not 
wait to speculate on the agent! The room to which the 
earl had directed him was on the first floor, and he as- 
cended to it at once — by the great oak staircase which 
went up the sides of the hall. 

The house had not been dismantled, although things 
had at different times been taken from it, and when 
Donal opened a leaf of shutter, he saw tables and chairs 
and cabinets inlaid with silver and ivory. The room 
looked stately, but everything was deep in dust; carpets 
and curtains were thick with the deserted sepulchers of 
moths; and the air somehow suggested a tomb. Donal 
thought of the tombs of the kings of Egypt before ravag- 
ing conquerors broke into them, when they were yet full 
of all such gorgeous furniture as great kings desired, 
against the time when the souls should return to reani- 
mate the bodies so carefully spiced and stored to welcome 
them, and the great kings would be themselves again, 
with the added wisdom of the dead and judged. Con- 
scious of a curious timidity, feeling a kind of awesomeness 
about every form in the room, he stepped softly to the 


262 


DONAL QRANT. 


bureau, applied its key, and following carefully the direc- 
tions the earl had given him, for the lock was Italian, 
with more than one quip and crank and wanton wile 
about it, succeeded in opening it. He had no difficulty 
in finding its secret place, nor the packet concealed in it; 
but just as he laid his hands on it he was aware of a swift 
passage along the floor without, past the door of the room, 
and apparently up the next stair. There was nothing he 
could distinguish as footsteps, or as the rustle of a dress; 
it seemed as if he had heard but a disembodied motion! 
He darted to the door, which he had by habit closed be- 
hind him, and opened it noiselessly. The stairs above as 
below were covered with thick carpet: any light human 
foot might pass without a sound; only haste would mur- 
mur the secret to the troubled air. 

He turned, replaced the packet, and closed the bureau. 
If there was any one in the house, he must know it, and 
who could tell what might follow! It was the merest ghost 
of a sound he had heard, but he must go after it! Some 
intruder might be using the earl’s house for his own pur- 
poses! 

Going softly up, he paused at the top of the second 
stair, and looked around him. An iron-clinched door 
stood nearly opposite the head of it; and at the further 
end of a long passage, on whose sides were several closed 
doors, was one partly opened. From that direction came 
the sound of a little movement, and then of low voices — 
one surely that of a woman! It flashed upon him that 
this must be the trysting-place of Eppy and Forgue. 
Fearing discovery before he should have gathered his wits, 
he stepped quietly across the passage to the door opposite, 
opened it, not without a little noise, and went in. 

It was a strange-looking chamber he had entered — that, 
doubtless, once occupied by the ogre— the Reid Etin. 
Even in the bewilderment of the moment, the tale he had 
just heard was so present to him that he cast his eyes 
around, and noted several Things to confirm the conclu- 
sion. But the next instant came from below what 
sounded like a thundering knock at the street door — a 
single knock, loud and fierce — possibly a mere runaway’s 
knock. The start it gave Donal set his heart shaking in 
his bosom. 

Almost with it came a little cry, and the sound of a 


DGNAL GRANT. 


263 


door pulled open. Then he heard a hurried, yet carefully 
soft step, which went down the stair. 

“Now is my time!” said Donal to himself. “She is 
alone!” 

He came out and went along the passage. The door at 
the end of it was open, and Eppy stood in it. She saw 
him coming, and gazed with widespread eyes of terror, as 
if it were the Reid Etin himself — waked, and coming to 
devour her. As he came, her blue eyes opened wider, 
and seemed to fix in their orbits; just as her name was on 
his lips, she dropped with a sharp moan. He caught her 
up, and hurried with her down the stair. 

As he reached the first floor, he heard the sound of 
swift ascending steps, and the next moment was face to 
face with Forgue. The youth started back, and for a 
moment stood staring. His enemy had found him! But 
rage restored to him his self-possession. 

“Put her down, you scoundrel!” he said. 

“She can’t stand,” Donal answered. 

“You’ve killed her, you damned spy!” 

“Then I have been more kind than you!” 

“What are you going to do with her?” 

“Take her home to her dying grandfather.” 

“You’ve hurt her, you devil! I know you have!” 

“She is only frightened. She is coming to herself. I 
feel her waking!” 

“You shall feel me presently!” cried Forgue. “Put 
her down, I say.” 

Neither of them spoke loud, for diesd of neighbors. 

Eppy began to writhe in Donal’s arms. Forgue laid 
hold of her, and Donal was compelled to put her down. 
She threw herself into the arms of her lover, and was on 
the point of fainting again. 

“Get out of the house!” said Forgue to Donal. 

“I am here on your father’s business!” returned Donal. 

“A spy and informer!” 

“He sent me to fetch him some papers.” 

“It is a lie!” said Forgue; “I see it in your face!” 

“So long as I speak the truth,” rejoined Donal, “it 
matters little that you should think me a liar. But, my 
lord, you must allow me to take Eppy home.” 

“A likely thing!” answered Forgue, drawing Eppy 
closer, and looking at him with contempt. 


264 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Give up the girl,” said Donal sternly, “or I will raise 
the town, and have a crowd about the house in three 
minutes.” 

“You are the devil!” cried Forgue. “There! take her 
— with the consequences! If you had let us alone, I 
would have done my part. Leave us now, and Fll promise 
to marry her. If you don’t, you will have the blame of 
what may happen — not I.” 

“But you will, dearest?” said Eppy in a tone terrified 
and beseeching. 

Gladly she would have had Donal hear him say he 
would. 

Forgue pushed her from him. She burst into tears. 
He took her in his arms again, and soothed her like a 
child, assuring her he meant nothing by what he had 
said. 

“You are my own!” he went on; “you know you are, 
whatever our enemies may drive us to! Nothing can part 
us. Go with him, my darling, for the present. The 
time will come when we shall laugh at them all. If it 
were not for your sake, and the scandal of the thing, I 
would send the rascal to the bottom of the stair. But it 
is better to be patient.” 

Sobbing bitterly, Eppy went with Donal. Forgue stood 
shaking with impotent rage. 

When they reached the street, Donal turned to lock the 
door. Eppy darted after him, and ran down the close, 
thinking to go in again by the side door. But it was 
locked, and Donal was with her in a moment. 

“You go home alone, Eppy,” he said; “it will he just 
as well I should not go with you. I must see Lord Forgue 
out of the house.” 

“Eh, ye winna hurt him!” pleaded Eppy. 

“Not if I can help it. I don’t want to hurt him. You 
go home. It will be better for him as well as you.” 

She went slowly away, weeping, but trying to keep 
what show of calm she could. Donal waited a minute or 
two, went back to the front door, entered, and hastening 
to the side door took the key from the lock. Then re- 
turning to the hall, he cried from the bottom of the stair: 

“My lord, I have both the keys; the side door is locked ; 
I am about to lock the front door, and I do not want to 
shut you in. Pray, come down.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


265 


Forgue came leaping down the stair and threw himself 
upon Donal in a fierce attempt after the key in his hand. 
The sudden assault staggered him, and he fell on the 
floor with Forgue above him, who sought to wrest the key 
from him. But Donal was much the stronger; he threw 
his assailant off him; and fora moment was tempted to 
give him a good thrashing. From this the thought of 
Eppy helped to restrain him, and he contented himself 
with holding him down till he yielded. When at last he 
lay quiet — 

“Will you promise to walk out if I let you up?” said 
Donal. “If you will not, I will drag you into the street 
by the legs.” 

“I will,” said Forgue; and getting up, he walked out 
and away without a word. 

Donal locked the door, forgetting all about the papers, 
and went back to Andrew’s. There was Eppy, safe for 
the moment! She was busy in the outer room, and kept 
her back to him. With a word or two to the grand- 
mother, he left them, and went home, revolving all the 
way what he ought to do. Should he tell the earl, or 
should he not? Had he been a man of rectitude, he 
would not have hesitated a moment; but knowing he did 
not care what became of Eppy, so long as his son did not 
marry her, he felt under no obligation to carry him the 
evil report. The father might have a right to know, but 
had he a right to know from him? 

A noble nature finds it almost impossible to deal with 
questions on other than the highest grounds; where those 
grounds are unrecognized, the relations of responsibility 
may be difficult indeed to determine. All Donal was able 
to conclude on his way home, and he did not hurry, was 
that if he were asked any questions he would speak out 
what he knew — be absolutely open. If that should put a 
weapon in the hand of the enemy, a weapon was not the 
victory. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

PATERNAL REVENGE. 

No sooner had he entered the castle, where his return 
had been watched for, than Simmons came to him with 


266 


DONAL GRANT. 


the message that his lordship wanted to see him. Then 
first Donal remembered that he had not brought the 
papers! Had he not been sent for, he would have gone 
back at once to fetch them. As it was, he must see the 
earl first. 

He found him in a worse condition than usual. His 
last drug or combination of drugs had not agreed with 
him; or he had taken too much, with correspondent reac- 
tion: he was in a vile temper. Donal told him he had 
been in the house, and had found the papers, but had not 
brought them — had, in fact, forgotten them. 

“A pretty fellow you are!” cried the earl. “What, 
you left those papers lying about where any rascal may 
find them and play the deuce with them!” 

Donal assured him they were perfectly safe, under the 
same locks and keys as before. 

“You are always going about the bush!” cried the earl. 
“You never come to the point! How the devil was it you 
locked them up again? To go prying all over the house, 
I suppose!” 

Donal told him as much of the story as he would hear. 
Almost immediately he saw whither it tended, he began 
to abuse him for meddling with things he had nothing to 
do with. What right had he to interfere with Lord 
Forgue’s pleasures? Things of the sort were to be re- 
garded as non-existent! The linen had to be washed, but 
it was not done in the great court! Lord Forgue was a 
youth of position: why should he be balked of his fancy? 
It might be at the expense of society! 

Donal took advantage of the first pause to ask whether 
he should not go back and bring the papers: he would 
run all the way, he said. 

“No, damn you!” answered the earl. “Give me' the 
keys — all the keys— house keys and all. I should be a 
fool myself to trust such a fool again!” 

As Donal was laying the last key on the table by his 
lordship’s bedside, Simmons appeared, saying Lord Forgue 
desired to know if his father would see him. 

“Oh, yes! send him up!” cried the earl in a fury. 
“All the devils in hell at once!” 

His lordship’s rages came up from abysses of misery no 
man knew but himself. 

“You go into the next room, Grant,” he said, “and 
wait there till I call you.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


267 


Donal obeyed, took a book from the table, and tried to 
read. He heard the door to the passage open and close 
again, and then the sounds of voices. By degrees they 
grew louder, and at length the earl roared out, so that 
Donal could not help hearing: 

“I’ll bo damned soul and body in hell but I’ll put a 
stop to this! Why, you son of a snake! I have but to 
speak the word, and you are — well, what — Yes, I will 
hold my tougue, but not if he crosses me! By God! I 
have held it too long already! — letting you grow up the 
damnablest ungrateful dog that ever snuffed carrion! 
And your poor father periling his soul for you, by God, 
you rascal!” 

“Thank Heaven, you cannot take the title from me, my 
lord!” said Forgue coolly. “The rest you are welcome 
to give to Davie! It won’t be too much, by all accounts!” 

“Damn you and your title! A pretty title, ha! ha! ha! 
Why, you infernal fool, you have no more right to the 
title than the beggarly kitchen-maid you would marry! 
If you but knew yourself, you would crow in another 
fashion! Ha! ha! ha!” 

At this Donal opened the door. 

“I must warn your lordship,” he said, “that if you 
speak so loud, I shall hear every word.” 

“Hear and be damned to you! That fellow there— you 
see him standing there — the mushroom that he is! Good 
God! how I loved his mother! and this is the way he 
serves me! But there was a Providence in the whole 
affair! Never will I disbelieve in a Providence again! It 
all comes out right, perfectly right! Small occasion had 
I do to be breaking heart and conscience over it ever since 
she left me! Hang the pinchbeck rascal! he’s no more 
Forgue than you are, Grant, and never will be Morven if 
he live a hundred years! He’s not a short straw better 
than any bastard in the street! His mother was the love- 
liest woman ever breathed! — and loved me— ah, God! it is 
something after all to have been loved so — and by such a 
woman!— a woman, by God! ready and willing and happy 
to give up everything for me! Everything, do you hear, 
you damned rascal? I never married her! Do you hear, 
trrant? I take you to witness; mark my words: we, that 
fellow’s mother and I, were never married— by no law, 
Scotch, or French, or Dutch, or what you will! He’s a 


268 


DONAL GRANT. 


damned bastard, and may go about his business when he 
pleases. Oh, yes! pray do! Marry your scullion when 
you please! You are your own master — entirely your own 
master! — free as the wind that blows to go where you will 
and do what you please! I wash my hands of you. You’ll 
do as you please — will you? Then do, and please me: I 
desire no better revenge! I only tell you once for all, 
the moment I know for certain you’ve married the wench, 
that moment I publish to the world — that is, I acquaint 
certain gossips with the fact— that the next Lord Morven 
will have to be hunted for like a truffle — ha! ha! ha!” 

He burst into a fiendish fit of laughter, and fell hack on 
his pillow, dark with rage and the unutterable fury that 
made of his being a volcano. The two men had been 
standing dumb before him, Donal pained for the man on 
whom this vial of devilish wrath had been emptied, he 
white and trembling with dismay — an abject creature, 
crushed by a cruel parent. When his father ceased, he 
still stood, still said nothing: power was gone from him. 
He grew ghastly, uttered a groan, and wavered. Donal 
supported him to a chair; he dropped into it and leaned 
back, with streaming face. It was miserable to think 
that one capable of such emotion concerning the world’s 
regard should be so indifferent to what alone can affect a 
man — the nature of his actions — so indifferent to the 
agony of another as to please himself at all risk to her, 
although he believed he loved her, and perhaps did love 
her better than any one else in the world. For Donal did 
not at all trust him regarding Eppy — less now than ever. 
But these thoughts went on in him almost without his 
thinking them; his attention was engrossed with the pas- 
sionate creatures before him. 

The father too seemed to have lost the power of motion, 
and lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. But by 
and by he made what Donal took for a sign to ring the 
bell. He did so, and Simmons came. The moment he 
entered and saw the state his master was in, he hastened 
to a cupboard, took thence a bottle, poured from it some- 
thing colorless, and gave it to him in water. It brought 
him to himself. He sat up again, and in a voice hoarse 
and terrible said : 

“Think of what I have told you, Forgue. Do as I 
would have you, the truth is safe; take your way 
without me, and I «vill take mine without you. Go,” 


DONAL GRANT. 


269 


Donal went. Forgue did not move. 

What was Donal to do or think now? Perplexities 
gathered upon him. Happily there was time for thought, 
and for prayer, which is the highest thinking. Here was 
a secret affecting the youth his enemy, and the boy his 
friend ! affecting society itself — that society which, largely 
capable and largely guilty of like sins, j T et visits with such 
unmercy the sins of the fathers upon the children, the 
sins of the offender upon the offended! But there is an- 
other who visits them, and in another fashion ! What was 
he to do? Was he to hold his tongue and leave the thing 
as not his, or to speak out as he would have done had 
the case been his own? Ought the chance to be allowed 
the nameless youth of marrying his cousin? Ought the 
next heir to the lordship to go without his title? Had 
they not both a claim upon Donal for the truth? Donal 
thought little of such things himself, but did that affect 
his duty in the matter? He might think little of money, 
but would he therefore look on while a pocket was picked ? 

On reflection he saw, however, that there was no cer- 
tainty the earl was speaking the truth; for anything he 
knew of him, he might be inventing the statement in 
order to have his way with his son ! For in either case he 
was a double-dyed villain; and if he spoke the truth was 
none the less capable of lying. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

FILIAL RESPONSE. 

One thing then was clear to Donal, that for the present 
he had nothing to do with the affair. Supposing the 
earl’s assertion true, there was at present no question as 
to the succession ; before such question could arise, For- 
gue might be dead; before that, his father might himself 
have disclosed the secret ; while, the longer Donal thought 
about it, the greater was his doubt whether he had spoken 
the truth. The man who could so make such a statement 
to his son concerning his mother, must indeed have been 
capable of the wickedness assumed ! but also the man who 
coiild sweb ft statement was surely vjle enough to lie? 


270 


DONAL GRANT. 


The thing remained uncertain, and he was assuredly not 
called upon to act! 

But how would Forgue carry himself? His behavior 
now would decide or at least determine his character! If 
he were indeed as honorable as he wished to be thought, 
he would tell Eppy what had occurred, and set himself at 
once to find some way of earning his and her bread, or at 
least to become capable of earning it. He did not seem to 
cherish any doubt of the truth of what had fallen in rage 
from his father’s lips, for, to judge by his appearance, to 
the few and brief glances Donal had of him during the 
next week or so, the iron had sunk into his soul: he looked 
more wretched than Donal could have believed it possible 
for man to be — abject quite. It manifested very plainly 
what a miserable thing, how weak and weakening, is the 
pride of this world. One who could be so cast down, was 
hardly one, alas, of whom to expect any greatness of 
action! He was not likely to have honesty or courage 
enough to decline a succossion that was not his — even 
though it would leave his way clear to marry Eppy. 
Whether any of Forgue’s misery arose from the fact that 
Donal had been present at the exposure of his position, 
Donal could not tell; but he could hardly fail to regard 
him as a dangerous holder of his secret — one who would 
be more than ready to take hostile action in the matter! 
At the same time, such had seemed the paralyzing influ- 
ence of the shock upon him that Donal doubted if he had 
been, at any time during the interview, so much aware of 
his presence as not to have forgotten it entirely before he 
came to himself. Had he remembered the fact, would he 
not have come to him to attempt securing his complicity? 
If he meant to do right, why did he hesitate? — there was 
but one way, and that plain before him ! 

But presently Donal began to see many things an 
equivocating demon might urge: the claims of his mother; 
the fact that there was no near heir — he did not even 
know who would come in his place; that he would do as 
well with the property as another; that he had been al- 
ready grievously wronged; that his mother’s memory 
would be yet more grievously wronged; that the marriage 
had been a marriage in the sight of God, and as such surely 
he of all men was in heaven’s right to regard it! and his 
mother had been the truest of wives to his father! These 


DONAL GRANT. 


271 


things and more Donal saw he might plead with himself; 
and if he was the man he had given him no small 
ground to think, he would in all probability listen to them, 
lie would recall or assume the existence of many prec- 
edents in the history of noble families; he would say 
that, knowing the general character of their heads, no one 
would believe a single noble family without at least one 
unrecorded, undiscovered, or well concealed irregularity 
in its descent; and he would judge it the crudest thing to 
have let him know the blighting fact, seeing that in ignor- 
ance he might have succeeded with good conscience. 

But what kind of a father was this, thought Donal, who 
would thus defile his son’s conscience! he had not done it 
in mere revenge, but to gain his son’s submission as well! 
Whether the poor fellow leaned to the noble or ignoble, 
it was no marvel he should wander about looking scarce 
worthy the name of man! If he would but come to him 
that he might help him! He could at least encourage 
him to refuse the evil and choose the good! But even if 
he would receive such help, the foregone passages between 
them rendered it sorely improbable it would ever fall to 
him to afford it! 

That his visits to Eppy were intermitted, Donal judged 
from her countenance and bearing; and if he hesitated to 
sacrifice his own pride to the truth, it could not be with- 
out contemplating as possible the sacrifice of her happi- 
ness to a lie. In such delay he could hardly be praying 
“Lead me not into temptation:” if not actively tempting 
himself, he was submitting to be tempted; he was linger- 
ing on the evil shore. 

Andrew Comin stayed yet a week — slowly, gently fad- 
ing out into life — darkening into eternal day — forgetting 
into knowledge itself. Donal was by his side when he 
went, but little was done or said; he crept into the open 
air in his sleep, to wake from the dreams of life and the 
dreams of death and the dreams of sleep all at once, and 
see them mingling together behind him like a broken 
wave — blending into one vanishing dream of a troubled, 
yet, oh, how precious night past and gone! 

Once, about an hour before he went, Donal heard him 
murmur: 

‘“When I wake I am still with thee!” 

Doory was perfectly calm. When he gave his last sigh, 


m 


DONAL GRANT. 


she sighed too, said, “I winna be lang, Anerew!” and 
said no more. Eppy wept bitterly. 

Donal went every day to see them till the funeral was 
over. It was surprising how many of the town’s folk 
attended it. Most of them had regarded the cobbler as a 
poor talkative enthusiast with far more tongue than 
brains! Because they were so far behind and beneath 
him, they saw him very small! 

One cannot help reflecting what an indifferent trifle the 
funeral, whether plain to bareness, as in Scotland, or 
lovely with meaning as often in England, is to the spirit 
who has hut dropped his hurting shoes on the weary road, 
dropped all the dust and heat, dropped the road itself, 
yea, the world of its pilgrimage — which never was, never 
could be, never was meant to be bis country, only the 
place of his sojourning — in which the stateliest house of 
marble can be but a tent— cannot be a house, yet less a 
home. Man could never be made at home here, save by a 
mutilation, a depression, a lessening of his being; those 
who fancy it their home, will come by growth, one day to 
feel that it is no more their home than its mother’s egg 
is the home of the lark. 

For some time Donal’s savings continued to support the 
old woman and her granddaughter. But ere long Doory got 
so much to do in the way of knitting stockings and other 
things, and was set to so many light jobs by kindly people 
who respected her more than her husband because they 
saw her less extraordinary, that she seldom troubled him. 
Miss Carmichael offered to do what she could to get Eppy 
a place, if she answered certain questions to her satisfac- 
tion. How she liked her catechising I do not know, but 
she so far satisfied her interrogator that she did find her a 
place in Edinburgh. She wept sore at leaving Auchars, 
but there was no help; rumor had been more cruel thau 
untrue, and besides there was no peace for her near the 
castle. Not once had Lord Forgue sought her since he 
gave her up to Donal, and she thought he had then given 
her up altogether. Notwithstanding his kindness to her 
house, she all but hated Donal — perhaps the more nearly 
that her conscience told her he had done nothing but 
what was right. 

Things returned into the old grooves at the castle, but 
the happy thought of his friend, the cobbler, hammering 


DONAL GRANT. 


m 


and stitching in the town below, was gone from Donal. 
True, the craftsman was a nobleman now, but such he 
had always been! 

Forgue mooned about, doing nothing, and recognizing 
no possible help save in what was utter defeat. If he had 
had anv faith in Donal, he might have had help fit to 
make a man of him, which he would have found something 
more than an earl. Donal would have taught him to look 
things in the face, and call them by their own names. It 
would have been the redemption of his being. To let 
things be as they truly are, and act with truth in respect 
of them, is to be a man. But Forgue showed little sign 
of manhood, present or to come. 

He was much on horseback, now riding furiously over 
everything, as if driven by the very fiend, now dawdling 
along with the reins on the neck of his weary animal. 
Donal once met him thus in a narrow lane. The moment 
Forgue saw him, he pulled up his horse’s head, spurred 
him hard, and came on as if he did not see him. Donal 
shoved, himself into the hedge, and escaped with a little 
mud. 


CHAPTER L. 

A SOUTHEASTERLY WIND. 

One morning, Donal in the schoolroom with Davie, a 
knock came to the door, and Lady Arctura entered. 

“The wind is blowing form the southeast,” she said. 

“Listen, then, my lady, whether you can hear any- 
thing,” said Donal. “I fancy it is a very precise wind 
that is wanted.” 

“I will listen,” she answered, and went. 

The day passed, and he heard nothing more. He was 
at work in his room in the warm evening twilight, when 
Davie came running to his door, and said Arkie was com- 
ing up after him. He rose and stood at the top of the 
stair to receive her. She had heard the music, she said — 
very soft: would he go on the roof? 

“Where were you, my lady,” asked Donal, “when you 
heard it? I have heard nothing up here!” 

“In my own little parlor,” she replied. “It was very 
faint, but I could not mistake it.” 


DONAL GRANT, 


274 

They went upon the roof. The wind was soft and low, 
an excellent thing in winds. They knew the paths of the 
roof better now, and had plenty of light, although the 
moon, rising large and round, gave them little of hers yet, 
and were soon at the foot of the great chimnev-stack, 
which grew like a tree out of the house. There they sat 
down to wait and hearken. 

“I am almost sorry to have made this discovery !” said 
Donal. 

“Why?” asked Lady Arctura. “Should not the truth 
be found, whatever it may be? You at least think so!” 

“Most certainly,” answered Donal. “And if this be 
the truth, as I fully expect it will prove, then it is well it 
should be found to be. But I should have liked better it 
had been something we could not explain.” 

“I doubt if I understand you.” 

“Things that cannot be explained so widen the horizon 
around us! open to us fresh regions for question and an- 
swer, for possibility and delight! They are so many ker- 
nels of knowledge closed in the hard nuts of seeming con- 
tradiction. You know, my lady, there are stories of cer- 
tain houses being haunted by a mysterious music presag- 
ing evil to the family?” 

“I have heard of such music. But what can be the use 
of it?” 

“I do not know. I see not the smallest use in it. If 
it were of use it would surely be more common! If it 
were of use, why should those who have it be of the class 
less favored, so to speak, of the Lord of the universe, and 
the families of His poor never have it?” 

“Perhaps for the same reason that they have their other 
good things in this life!” said Arctura. 

“I am answered,”' confessed Donal, “and have no more 
to say. These tales, if they require of us a belief in any 
special care over such houses, as if they were more pre- 
cious in the eyes of God than the poorest cottage in the 
land, I cast them from me.” 

“But,” said Arctura, in a deprecating tone, “are not 
those houses which have more influence more important 
than the others?” 

“Surely— -those which have more good influence. But 
such are rarely the great houses of a country. Our Lord 
was not an Asmonaean prince, but the son of a humble 
maiden, his reputed father a workingman.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


275 


“I do not see — I should like to understand how that 
has to do with it.” 

“You may be sure the Lord took the position in life in 
which it was most possible to do the highest good; and 
without driving the argument — for every work has its 
own speciality — it seems probable that the true ends of 
his coming will still be better furthered from the stand- 
point of humble circumstances than from that of rank 
and position.” 

“You always speak,” said Arctura, “as if there were 
only the things Jesus Christ came for to be cared about — 
is there nothing but salvation worthy a human being’s 
regard?” 

“If you give a true and large enough meaning to the 
word salvation, I answer you at once, nothing. Only in 
proportion as a man is saved, will he do the work of the 
world aright — the whole design of which is to rear a beau- 
tiful blessed family. The world is God’s nursery for his 
upper rooms. Oneness with God is the end of the order 
of things. When that is attained, we shall do greater 
things than the Lord himself did on the earth! But was 
not that iEolus? Listen!” 

There came a low prolonged wail. 

The ladder was in readiness; Donal set it up in haste, 
climbed to the cleft, and with a sheet of brown paper in 
his hands, waited the next cry of the prisoned chords. 
He was beginning to get tired of his position, when sud- 
denly came a stronger puff, and he heard the music dis- 
tinctly in the shaft beside him. It swelled and grew. 
He spread the sheet of paper over the opening, the wind 
blew it flat against the chimney, and the sound instantly 
ceased. He removed it, and again came the sound. The 
wind continued, and grew stronger, so that they were able 
to make the simple experiment until no shadow of a doubt 
was left; they had discovered the source of the music! 
By certain dispositions of the paper they were even able 
to modify it. 

Donal descended, and said to Davie: 

“I wish you not to say a word about this to any one, 
Davie, before Lady Arctura or I give you leave. You 
have a secret with us now. The castle belongs to Lady 
Arctura, and she has a right to ask you not to speak of it 
to any one without her permission. I have a reason, my 


276 


DONAL OH AN 2, 


lady/’ he went on, turning to Arctura: “will yon please 
desire Davie to attend to what I say? I will immediately 
explain to yon, but I do not want Davie to know my rea- 
son until you do. You can on the instant withdraw your 
prohibition, should you not think my reason a good one.” 

“Davie,” said Arctura, “I too have faith in Mr. Grant; 
I beg you will keep all this a secret for the present.” 

“Oh, surely, Cousin Arkie!” said Davie.. “But, Mr. 
Grant, why should you make Arkie speak to me, too?” 

“Because the thing is her business, not mine. Run 
down and wait for me in my room. Go steadily over the 
bartizan, mind.” 

Donal turned again to Arctura. 

“You know they say there is a hidden room in the cas- 
tle, my lady?” 

“Do you believe it?” she returned. 

“I think there may be such a place.” 

“Surely if there had been, it would have been found 
long ago.” 

“They might have said that on the first report of the 
discovery of America!” 

“That was far off, and across a great ocean!” 

“And here are thick walls, and hearts careless and 
timid! has any one ever set in earnest about finding it?” 

“Not that I know of.” 

“Then your objection falls to the ground. If you could 
have told me that one had tried to find the place, but 
without success, I would have admitted some force in it, 
though it would not have satisfied me without knowing 
the plans he had taken, and how they were carried out. 
On the other hand it may have been known to many who 
held their peace about it. Would you not like to know 
the truth concerning that too?” 

“I should indeed. But would not you be sorry to lose 
another mystery?” 

“On the contrary, there is only the rumor of a mystery 
now, and we do not quite believe it. We are not at lib- 
erty, in the name of good sense, to believe it yet. But 
if we find the room, or the space even where it may be, 
we shall probably find also a mystery — something never in 
this world to be accounted for, but suggesting a hundred 
unsatisfactory explanations. But, pardon me, I do not in 
the least presume to press it.” 


DONAL QUANT. 


m 


Lady Arctura smiled. 

“You may do what you please, ” she said. “If I 
seemed for a moment to hesitate, it was only that I won- 
dered what my uncle would say to it. I should not like 
to vex him.” 

“Certainly not; but would he not be pleased?” 

“I will speak to him, and find out. He hates what he 
calls superstition, and I fancy has curiosity enough not to 
object to a search. I do not think he would consent to 
pulling down, but short of that, I don’t think he will 
mind. I should not wonder if he even joined in the 
search.” 

Donal thought with himself it was strange then he had 
never undertaken one. Something told him the earl 
would not like the proposal. 

“But tell me, Mr. Grant — how would you set about 
it?” said Arctura, as they went toward the tower. 

“If the question were merely whether or not there was 
such a room, and not the finding of it ” 

“Excuse me*— but how could you tell whether there was 
or was not such a room except by searching for it?” 

“By determining whether there was or was not some 
space in the castle unaccounted for.” 

“I do not see.” 

“Would you mind coming to my room? It will be a 
lesson for Davie too!” 

She assented, and Donal gave them a lesson in cubic 
measure and content. He showed them how to reckon 
the space that must lie within given boundaries; if then 
within those boundaries they could not find so much, part 
of it must be hidden. If they measured the walls of the 
castle, allowing of course for their thickness and every ir- 
regularity, and from that calculated the space they must 
hold, then measured all the rooms and open places within 
the walls, allowing for all partitions; and having again 
calculated, found the space fall short of what they had 
from the outside measurements to expect; they must con- 
clude either that they had measured or calculated wrong, 
or that there was space in the castle to which they had no 
access. 

“But,” continued Donal, when they had in a degree 
mastered the idea, “if the thing was to discover the room 
itself, I should set about it in a different way; I should 


278 


DONAL GUANT. 


not care about the measuring. I would begin and go all 
over the castle, first getting the outside shape right in my 
head, and then fitting everything inside it into that shape 
of it in my brain. If I came to a part I could not so fit at 
once, I would examine that according to the rules I have 
given you, take exact measurements of the angles and 
sides of the different rooms and passages, and find whether 
these inclosed more space than I could at once discover 
inside them. But I need not follow the process further; 
pulling down might be the next thing, and we must not 
talk of that!’’ 

“But the thing is worth doing, is it not, even if we do 
not go so far as to pull down?” 

“I think so.” 

“And I think my uncle will not object. Say nothing 
about it, though, Davie, till we give you leave.” 

That we was pleasant in Donai’s ears. 

Lady Arctura rose, and they all went down together. 
When they reached the hall, Davie ran to get his kite. 

“But you have not told me why you would not have 
him speak of the music,” said Arctura, stopping at the 
foot of the great stair. 

“Partly because if we were to go on to make search for 
the room, it ought to be kept as quiet as possible, and the 
talk about the one would draw notice to the other; and 
partly because I have a hope that the one may even guide 
us to the other.” 

“You will tell me about that afterward,” said Arctura, 
and went up the stair. 

That night the earl had another of his wandering fits; 
also all night the wind blew from the southeast. 

In the morning Arctura went to him with her proposal. 
The instant he understood what she wished, his counte 
nance grew black as thunder. 

“What!” he cried, “you would go pulling the grand 
old bulk to pieces for the sake of a foolish tale about the 
devil and a set of card-players! By my soul, I’ll be 
damned if you do! Not while I’m above ground at least! 
That’s what comes of putting such a place in the power 
of a woman! It’s sacrilege! By heaven, I’ll throw my 
brother’s will into chancery rather!” 

His rage was such as to compel her to think there must 
be more in it than appeared. The wildness of the temper 


DONAL GRANT. 


m 


she had roused made her tremble, but it also woke the 
spirit of her race, and she repented of the courtesy she 
had shown him; she had the right to make what investi- 
gations she pleased! Her father would not have left her 
the property without good reasons for doing so; and of 
those reasons some might well have lain in the character 
of the man before her! 

Through all his rage the earl read something of what 
had sent the blood of the Graemes to her cheek and brow. 

“I beg your pardon, my love,” he said, “but if he was 
your father, he was my brother!” 

“He is my father!” said Arctura coldly. 

“Dead and gone and all but forgotten!” 

“No, my lord; not for one day forgotten! not for one 
moment unloved!” 

“Ah, well! as you please; but because you love his mem- 
ory most I regard him as a Solon? 'Tis surely no great 
reason to reflect upon the wisdom of a dead man!” 

“I wish you good-day, my lord!” said Arctura, very 
angry, and left him. 

But when presently she found that she could not lift up 
her heart to her Father in Heaven, gladly would she have 
sent her anger from her. Was it not plainly other than 
good, when it came thus between her and the living God. 
All day at intervals she had to struggle and pray against 
it; a great part of the night she lay awake because of it; 
but at length she pitied her uncle too much to be very 
angry with him any more, and so fell asleep. 

In the morning she found that all sense of his having 
authority over her had vanished, and with it her anger. 
She saw also that it was quite time she took upon herself 
the duties of a landowner. What could Mr. Grant think 
of her — doing nothing for her people! But she could do 
little while her uncle received the rents and gave orders 
to Mr. Graeme! She would take the thing into her own 
hands. In the meantime, Mr. Grant should, if he 
pleased, go on quietly with his examination of the house. 

But she could not get her interview with her uncle out 
of her head, and was haunted with vague suspicions of 
some dreadful secret about the house belonging to the 
present as well as the past. Her uncle seemed to have 
receded to a distance incalculable, and to have grown 
awful as he receded. She was of a nature almost too deli- 


DONAL GRANT. 


2&0 


cately impressionable; she not only felt things keenly, 
but retained the sting of them after the things were 
nearly forgotten. But then the swift and rare response^ 
of her faculties arose in no small measure from this im-' 
pressionableness. At the same time, but for instincts 
and impulses derived from her race, her sensitiveness 
might have degenerated into weakness. 


CHAPTER LI. 

A DREAM. 

One evening, as Donal was walking in the little avenue 
below the terraces, Davie, who was now advanced to do- 
ing a little work without his master’s immediate super- 
vision, came running to him to say that Arkie was in the 
school-room and wanted to see him. 

He hastened to her. 

“A word with you, please, Mr. Grant,” she said, 

Donal sent the boy away. 

“J have debated with myself all day whether I should 
tell you,” she began — and her voice trembled not a little; 
‘‘but I think I shall not be so much afraid to go to bed if 
I do tell you what I dreamed last night.” 

Her face was very pale, and there was a quiver about 
her mouth; she seemed ready to burst into tears. 

“Do tell me,” said Donal, sympathetically. 

“Do you think it very silly to mind one’s dreams?” she 
asked. 

“Silly or not,” answered Donal, “as regards the general 
run of dreams, it is plain you have had one that must be 
minded. What we must mind, it cannot be silly to mind.” 

“I am in no mood, I fear, for philosophy,” she re- 
joined, trying to smile. “It has taken such a hold of me 
that I cannot get rid of it, and there is no one 1 could tell 
it to but you; anyone else would laugh at me; but you 
never laugh at anybody! 

“I went to bed as well as usual, only a little troubled 
about my uncle’s strangeness, and soon fell asleep, to find 
myself presently in a most miserable place. It was like a 
brick-field — but a deserted brick-field. Heaps of broken 
and half- burnt bricks were all about. For miles and miles 


DONAL GRANT. 


281 


they stretched around me. I walked fast to get out of it. 
Nobody was near or in sight; there was not a sign of hu- 
man habitation from horizon to horizon. 

“All at once 1 saw before me a dreary church. It was 
old, tumble-down, and dirty — not in the least venerable — • 
very ugly — a huge building without shape, like most of 
our churches. I shrunk from the look of it; it was more 
horrible to me than I could account for; I feared it. But 
I must go in — why, I did not know, but I must; the 
dream itself compelled me, 

“I went in. It looked as if nobody had crossed its 
threshold for a hundred years. The pews were moldering 
away; the canopy over the pulpit had half-fallen, and 
rested its edge- on the book-board; the great galleries had 
in parts tumbled into the body of the church, in other 
parts they hung sloping from the walls. The center of 
the floor had fallen in, and there was a great, descending 
slope of earth, soft-looking, mixed with bits of broken 
and decayed wood, from the pews above and the coffins 
below. I stood gazing down in horror unutterable. How 
far the gulf went I could not see. I was fascinated by its 
slow depth, and the thought of its possible contents — • 
when suddenly I knew rather than perceived that some- 
thing was moving in its darkness: it was something dead 
— something yellow-white. It came nearer; it was slowly 
climbing; like one dead and stiff it was laboring up the 
slope. I could neither cry out nor move. It was about 
three yards below me, when it raised its head: it was my 
uncle, dead, and dressed for the grave. He beckoned me 
— and I knew I must go; I had to go, nor once thought 
of resisting. My heart became like lead, but immediately 
I began the descent. My feet sunk in the mold of the 
ancient dead, soft as if thousands of graveyard moles were 
forever burrowing in it, as down and down I went, settling 
and sliding with the black plane. Then I began to see the 
sidesand ends of coffins in the walls of the gulf; and the walls 
came closer and closer as I descended, until they scarcely 
left me room to get through. I comforted myself with 
the thought that those in these coffins had long been dead, 
and must by this time be at rest, nor was there any dan- 
ger of seeing moldy hands come out to seize me. At last 
I saw that my uncle had stopped, and I stood still, a few 
yards above him, more composed than I can understand . 99 


282 


DONAL GRANT. 


“The wonder is we are so believing, yet not more terri- 
fied, in our dreams, ” said Donal. 

“He began to heave and pull at a coffin that seemed to 
stop the way. Just as he got it dragged on one side, I 
saw on the bright silver handle the Morven crest. The 
same instant the lid rose and my father came out of the 
coffin, looking alive and bright; my uncle stood beside 
him like a corpse beside a soul. ‘What do you want with 
my child?’ he said; and my uncle cowered before him. 
He took my hand and said, ‘Come with me, my child.’ 
And I went with him — oh, so gladly! My fear was gone, 
and so was my uncle. He led me up the way we had 
come down, but when we came out of the hole, instead of 
finding myself in the horrible church, I was in my own 
room. I looked round — no one was near! I was sorry 
my father was gone, but glad to be in my own room. 
Then I woke — and here was the terrible thing — not in my 
bed — but standing in the middle of the floor, just where 
my dream had left me! I cannot get rid of the thought 
that I really went somewhere. I have been haunted with 
it the whole day. It is a terror to me — for if I did, where 
is my help against going again!” 

“In God our Saviour,” said Donal. “But had your 
uncle given you anything?” 

“I wish I could think so; but I do not see how he 
could.” 

“You must change your room, and get Mistress Brookes 
to sleep near you.” 

“I will.” 

Gladly would Donal have offered to sleep, like one of 
his colleys, outside her door, but Mrs. Brookes was the 
only one to help her. 

He began at once to make observations toward deter- 
mining the existence or non-existence of a hidden room, 
but in the quietest way, so as to attract no attention, and 
had soon satisfied himself concerning some parts that it 
could not be there. Without free scope and some one to 
help him, the thing was difficult. To guage a building 
which had grown through centuries, to fit the varying 
tastes and changing needs of the generations, was in itself 
not easy, and he judged it all but impossible without 
drawing some observation and rousing speculation. Great 
was the chaotic element in the congeries of erections and 


DONAL GRANT. 


283 


additions, brought together hy various contrivances, and 
with daringly enforced communication. Open spaces 
within the walls, different heights in the stories of con- 
tiguous buildings, breaks in the continuity of floors, and 
various other irregularities, he found confusingly obstruc- 
tive. 


CHAPTER LI I. 

INVESTIGATION". 

The autumn brought terrible storms. Many Ashing 
boats came to grief. Of some, the crews lost everything; 
of others, the loss of their lives delivered their crews from 
smaller losses. There were many bereaved in the village, 
and Donal went about among them, doing what he could, 
and getting help for them where his own ability would 
not reach their necessity. Lady Arctura wanted no per- 
suasion to go with him in some of his visits; and the in- 
tercourse she thus gained with humanity in its simpler 
forms, of which she had not had enough for the health of 
her own nature, was of high service to her. Perhaps 
nothing helps so much to believe in the Father, as the 
active practical love of the brother. If he who loveth not 
his brother whom he hath seen, can ill love God whom he 
hath not seen, then he who loves his brother must surely 
And it the easier to loveGcd! Arctura found that to visit 
the widow and the fatherless in their afflictions; to look 
on and know them as her kind; to enter into their sor- 
rows, and share the elevating influence of grief genuine 
and simple, the same in every human soul, was to draw 
near to God. She met him in his children. For to 
honor, love, and be just to our neighbor, is religion, and 
he who does these things will soon And that he cannot live 
without the higher part of religion, the love of God. If 
that do not follow, the other will sooner or later die away, 
leaving the man the worse for having had it. She found 
her way to God easier through the crowd of her fellows, 
while their troubles took her off her own, set them at a 
little distance from her, and so put it in her pow r er to un- 
derstand them better. 

One day after the Ashing boats had gone out, rose a ter*- 
rible storm. Some of them made for the harbor again — 


284 


ZONAL GRANT. 


such as it was; other kept out to sea; Stephen Kennedy’s 
boat came ashore bottom upward. His body was cast on 
the sands close to the spot where Donal dragged the net 
from the waves. There was sorrow afresh through the 
village; Kennedy was a favorite; and his mother was left 
childless. No son would any more come sauntering in 
with his long slouch in the gloamin’; and whether she 
would ever see him again — to know him — who could tell! 
For the common belief does not go much further than 
paganism in yielding comfort to those whose living loves 
have disappeared — the fault not of Christianity, but of 
Christians. 

The effect of the news upon Forgue I have some ground 
for conjecturing; I believe it made him care a little less 
about marrying the girl now that he knew no rival ready 
to take her; and feel also that he had one enemy the less, 
one danger the less, in the path he would like to take. 
Within a week after he left the castle, and if his father 
knew where he went, he was the only one who did. He 
had been pressing him to show some appeaarnce of inter- 
est in his cousin; Forgue had professed himself unequal to 
the task at present; if he might go away for a little while, 
he said, he would doubtless find it easier when he re- 
turned. 

The storms were over, the hedges and hidden roots had 
begun to dream of spring, and Arctura had returned to 
her own room to sleep, when one afternoon she came to 
the schoolroom and told Donal she had had the terrible 
dream again. 

“This time,” she said, “I came out, in my dream, on 
the great stair, and went up to my room, and into bed, 
before I waked. But I dare not ask Mistress Brookes 
whether she saw me ” 

“You do not imagine you were out of the room?” said 
Donal. 

“I cannot tell. I hope not. If I were to find I had 
been, it would drive me out of my senses! I was thinking 
all the day about the lost room; I fancy it had something 
to do with that.” 

“We must find the room, and have done with it!” said 
Donal. 

“Are you so sure we can?” she asked, her face bright- 
ening. 


DONAL GRANT. 


285 


“If there be one, and you will help me, I think we 
can,” he answered. 

“I will help you.” 

“Then first we will try the shaft of the music-chimney. 
That it has never smoked, at least since those wires were 
put there, makes it something to question — though the 
draught across it might doubtless have prevented it from 
being used. It may be the chimney to the very room. 
But we will first try to find out whether it belongs to any 
room we know. I will get a weight and a cord; the wires 
will be a plague, but I think we can pass them. Then we 
shall see how far the weight goes down, and shall know 
on what floor it is arrested. That will be something 
gained; the plan of inquiry will be determined. Only 
there may be a turn in the chimuey, preventing the 
weight from going to the bottom.” 

“When shall we set about it?” said Arctura, almost 
eagerly. 

“At once,” replied Donal. 

She went to get a shawl. 

Donal went to* the gardener’s tool-house, and found a 
suitable cord. There was a seven-pound weight, but that 
would not pass the wires! He remembered an old eight- 
day clock on a back stair, which was never going. He 
got out its heavier weight, and carried it, with the cord 
and the ladder, to his own stair — at the foot of which was 
Lady Arctura — waiting for him. 

There was that in being thus associated with the lovely 
lady, in knowing that peace had begun to visit her through 
him, that she trusted him implicitly, looking to him for 
help and even protection; in knowing that nothing but 
wrong to her could be looked for from uncle or cousin, 
and that he held what might be a means of protecting her, 
should undue inflencebe brought to bear upon her — there 
was that in all this, I say, that stirred to its depth the de- 
votion of Donal’s nature. With the help of Hod he would ' 
foil her enemies, and leave her a free woman — a thing 
well worth a man’s life! Many an angel had been sent on 
a smaller errand! 

Such were his thoughts as he followed Arctura up the 
stair, she carding the weight of the cord, he the ladder, 
which it was not easy to get round the screw of the stair. 
Arctura trembled with excitement as she ascended, grew 


286 


DONAL GRANT. 


frightened as often as she found "she had outstripped him, 
waited till the end of the ladder came poking round, and 
started again before the bearer appeared. 

Her dream had disquieted her more than she had yet 
confessed, had she been taking a way of her own, and 
choosing a guide instead of receiving instruction in the 
way of understanding? Were these things sent for her 
warning, to show her into what an aby=s of death her 
conduct was leading her? But the moment she found 
herself in the open air of DonaPs company, her doubts 
and fears vanished for the time. Such a one as he must 
surely know better than those others the way of the 
Spirit! Was he not more childlike, more straightforward, 
more simple, and as she could not but think, more obedi- 
ent than those? Mr. Carmichael was older, and might 
be more experienced; but did his light shine clearer than 
DonaPs? He might be a priest in the temple; but was 
there not a Samuel ip the temple as well as an Eli? It 
was the young, strong, ruddy shepherd, the defender of 
his flock, who was sent by God to kill the giant! He was 
too little to wear Saul’s armor; but he could kill a man 
too big to wear it? Thus meditated Arctura as she 
climbed the stair, and her hope and courage grew. 

A delicate conscience, sensitive feelings, and keen 
faculties, subjected to the rough rasping of coarse, self- 
satisfied, unspiritual natures, had almost lost their equi- 
librium. As to natural conditions no one was sounder 
than she; yet even now when she had more than begun to 
see its falsehood, a headache would suffice to bring her 
afresh under the influence of the hideous system she had 
been taught, and wake in her all kinds of deranging 
doubts and consciousnesses. Subjugated so long to the 
untrue, she required to be for a time, until her spiritual 
being should be somewhat individualized, under the 
genial influences of one who was not afraid to believe, one 
who knew the Master. Nor was there danger to either so 
long as he sought no end of his own, so long as he desired 
only His will, so long ns he could say, “Whom is there in 
heaven but Thee! and there is none upon earth that I 
desire besides Thee!” 

By the time she reached the top she was radiantly joy- 
ous in the prospect of a quiet hour with him whose pres- 
ence and words always gave her strength, who made the 


DONAL GRANT. 


287 


world look less mournful, and the will of God altogether 
beautiful; who taught her that the glory of the Father’s 
love lay in the inexorability of its demands, that it is of his 
deep mercy that no one can get out until he has paid the 
uttermost farthing. 

They stepped upon the roof and into the gorgeous after 
glow of an autumn sunset. The whole country, like 
another sea, was flowing from that well of color, in tidal 
waves of an ever advancing creation. Its more ethereal 
part, rushing on above, broke on the old roofs and chim- 
neys, and splashed its many-tinted foam all over them; 
while through it and folded in it came a cold thin wind 
that told of coming death. Arctura breathed a deep 
breath, and her joy grew. It is wonderful how small a 
physical elevation, lifting us into a slightly thinner air, 
serves to raise the human spirits! We are like barome- 
ters, only work the other way; the higher we go, the 
higher goes our mercury. 

They stood for a moment in deep enjoyment, then sim- 
ultaneously turned to each other. 

‘‘My lady,” said Donal, ‘‘with such a sky as that out 
there, it hardly seems as if there could be such a thing as 
our search to-night! Hollow places, hidden away for evil 
cause, do not go with it at all! There is the story of 
gracious invention and glorious gift; here the story of 
greedy gathering and self-seeking, which all concealment 
involves!” 

“But there may be nothing, you know, Mr. Grant!” 
said Arctura, troubled for the house. 

“There may be nothing. But if there is such a room, 
you may be sure it has some relation with terrible wrong 
— what, we may never find out, or even the traces of it.” 

“I shall not be afraid,” she said, as if speaking with 
herself. “It is the terrible dreaming that makes me 
weak. In the morning I tremble as if I had been in the 
hands of some evil power.” 

Donal turned his eyes upon her. How thin she looked 
in the last of the sunlight! A pang went through him at 
the thought that one day he might be alone with Davie 
in the huge castle, untended by the consciousness that a 
living light and loveliness flitted some where about its 
gloomy and ungenial walls. But he would not think the 
thought! How that dismal Miss Carmichael must have 


288 


DONAL GRANT. 


worried her! When the very hope of the creature of his 
Creator is attacked in the name of religion; when his 
longing after a living God is met with the offer of a 
paltry escape from hell, how is tne creature to live! It is 
God we want, not heaven; his righteousness, not an im- 
puted one, for our own possession, remission not letting 
off; love, not endurance for the sake of another, even if 
that other be the one loveliest of all. 

They turned from the sunset and made their way to the 
chimney-stack. There once more Donal set up his lad- 
der. He tied the clock-weight to the end of his cord, 
dropped it in, and with a little management got it through 
the wires. It went down and down, gently lowered, till 
the cord was all out, and still it would go. 

“Do run and get some more/’ said Arctura. 

“You do not mind being left alone?” 

“No — if you will not be long.” 

“I will run,” he said — and run he did, for she had 
scarcely begun to feel the loneliness when he returned 
panting. 

He took the end she had been holding, tied on the fresh 
cord he had brought, and again lowered away. As he 
was beginning to fear that after all he had not brought 
enough, the weight stopped, resting, and drew no more. 

“If only we had eyes in that weight,” said Arctura, 
“like the snails at the end of their horns!” 

“We might have greased the bottom of the weight,” 
said Donal, “as they do the lead when they want to know 
what kind of bottom there is to the sea; it might have 
brought up ashes. If it will not go any further, I will 
mark the string at the mouth, and draw it up.” 

He moved the weight up and down a little; it rested 
still, and he drew it up. 

“Now, we must mark off it the height of the chimney 
above the parapet wall,” he said; “and then I will lower 
the weight toward the court below, until this last knot 
comes to the wall; the weight will then show us on the 
outside how far down the house it went inside. Ah, I 
thought so!” he went on, looking over after the weight; 
“only to the first floor, or thereabouts! No, I think it is 
lower. But anyhow, my lady, as you can see, the place 
with which the chimney, if chimney it be, communicates, 
must be somewhere about the middle of the house, and 


DONAL GRANT. 


289 


perhaps is on the first floor; we can’t judge very well 
looking down from here, and against a spot where are no 
windows. Can you imagine what place it might be?” 

“I cannot,” answered Arctura; “but I could go into 
every room on that floor without any one seeing me.” 

“Then I will let the weight down the chimney again, 
and leave it for you to see, if you can, below. If you 
find it, we must do something else.” 

It was done, and they descended together. Donal 
went back to the schoolroom, not expecting to see her 
again till the next day. But in half an hour she came to 
him, saying she had been into every room on that floor, 
both where she thought it might be, and where she knew 
it could not be, and had not seen the weight. 

“The probability then is,” replied Donal, “that there- 
about somewhere — there, or further down in that neigh- 
borhood — lies the secret; but we cannot be sure, for the 
weight may not have reached the bottom of the shaft. 
Let us think what we shall do next.” 

He placed a chair for her by the fire. They had the 
room to themselves. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

MISTRESS BROOKES UPON THE EARL. 

They were hardly seated when Simmons appeared, say- 
ing he had been looking everywhere for her ladyship, for 
his lordship was taken as he had never seen him before; 
he had fainted right out in the half-way room, and he 
could not get him to. 

Having given orders to send at once to Auchars for the 
doctor, Lady Arctura hastened with Donal to the room 
on the stair. The earl was stretched motionless and pale 
on the floor. But for a slight twitching in one muscle of 
the face, they might have concluded him dead. They 
tried to get something down his throat, but without suc- 
cess. The men carried him up to his chamber. 

He began to come to himself, and Lady Arctura left 
him, telling Simmons to come to the library when he 
could, and let them know how he was. 

In about an hour he came; the doctor had been, and 
his master was better. 


290 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Do you know any cause for the attack?” asked her 
ladyship. 

“I’ll tell you all about it, my lady, so far as I know,” 
answered the butler. “I was there in that room with him 
— I had taken him some accounts, and was answering 
some questions about them, when all at once there came 
a curious noise in the wall. I can’t think what it was — 
an inward rumbling it was, that seemed to go up and 
down the wall with a sort of groaning, then stopped 
awhile, and came again. It sounded nothing very dread- 
ful to me; perhaps if it had been in the middle of the 
night, I mightn’t have liked it. His lordship started at 
tne first sound of it, turned pale and gasped, then cried 
out, laid his hand on his heart, and rolled off his chair. I 
did what I could for him, but it wasn’t like one of his 
ordinary attacks, and so I came to your ladyship. He’s 
such a ticklish subject, you see, my lady! It’s quite 
alarming to be left alone with him. It’s his heart; and 
you know, my lady — I should be sorry to frighten you, 
but you know, Mr. Grant, a gentleman with that com- 
plaint may go off any moment. I must go back to him 
now, my lady, if you please.” 

Arctura turned and looked at Donal. 

“We must be careful,” he said. 

“We must,” she answered. “Just thereabout is one of 
the few places in the house where you hear the music.” 

“And thereabout the music-chimney goes down! That 
is settled! But why should my lord be frightened so?” 

“I cannot tell. He is not like other people, you 
know.” 

“Where else is the music heard? You and your uncle 
seem to hear it oftener than any one else.” 

“In my own room. But we will talk to-morrow. Good- 
night.” 

“I will remain here the rest of the evening,” said 
Donal, “in case Simmons might want me to help with his 
lordship.” 

It was well into the night, and he still sat reading in 
the library, when Mrs. Brookes came to him. She bad 
had to get his lordship “what he ca’d a cat— something or 
ither, but naething but mustard to the soles o’ ’s feet to 
draw awa’ the bluid.” 

“He’s better the noo,” she said. “He’s taen a doze o’ 


DONAL GRANT. 


291 


ane o’ thae drogues he’s aye potterin’ wi’— fain to learn 
the trade o’ livin’ forever, I reckon! But that’s ae thing 
the Lord has keep it in ’s ain han’s. The tree o’ life was 
never aten o’, an’ never wull be noo i’ this warl; it’s lang 
transplantit. But eh, as to livin’ forever, or I wud be his 
lordship, I wud gie up the ghost at ance!” 

“What makes you say that, Mistress Brookes?” asked 
Donal. 

“It’s no ilk ane I wud answer sic a queston til,” she 
replied; “but I’m weel assured ye hae sense an’ hert 
eneuch baith, no to hurt a cratur’; an’ I’ll jist gang sae 
far as say to yersel’, an’ ’atween the twa o’ ’s, ’at I hae 
h’ard frae them ’at’s awa’ — them ’at weel kent, bein’ 
aboot the place an’ trustit — that whan the fit was upon 
him, he was fell cruel to the bonny wife he merriet abro’d 
an’ broucht hame wi’ him — til a cauld-hertit county, n 
puir thing, she maun hae thoucht it!” 

“How could he have been cruel to her in the house of 
his brother? Even if he was the wretch to be guilty of 
it, his brother would never have connived at the ill-treat- 
ment of any woman under his roof!” 

“Hoo ken ye the auld yerl sae weel?” asked Mrs. 
Brookes, with a sly glance. 

“I ken,” answered Donal, direct as was his wont, but 
finding somehow a little shelter in the dialect, “ ’at sic a 
dauchter could ill hae been born to ony but a man ’at — 
weel, ’at wad at least behave til a wuman like a man.” 

“Ye’re i’ the richt! He was the ten’erest-hertit man! 
But he was far frae stoot, an’ was a heap by bimsel’, near- 
han’ as mickle as his lordship the present yerl. An’ the 
lady was that prood, an’ that dewotit to the man she ca’d 
her ain, that never a word o’ what gaed on cam to the 
ears o’ his brither, I daur to say, or I s’ warran’ ye there 
wud hae been a fine steer! It cam, she said — my auld 
auntie sid — o’ some kin’ o’ madness they haena a name 
for yet. I think mysell’ there’s a madness o’ the hert as 
weel ’s o’ the heid ; an’ i’ that madness men tak their 
women for a property o’ their ain, to be han’led ony gait 
the deevil puts in til them. Cries i’ the deid o’ the nicht, 
an’ never a sbaw i’ the mornin’ but white cheeks an’ reid 
een, tells its ain tale. I’ the en’, the puir leddy dee’d, 
’at micht hae lived but for him; an’ her bairnie dee’d 
afore her; an’ the wrangs o’ bairns an’ women stick lang 


m 


DONAL QRANT. 


to the wa’s o’ the universe! It was said she cam efter 
him again; A kenna; but I hae seen an’ h’ard i’ this hoose 
what— I s’ haud my tongue aboot! Sure I am he wasna a 
gnid man to the puir wuman! whan it comes to that, 
Maister Grant, it’s no my leddy an’ mem, but we’re a’ 
women thegither! She dee’dna i’ this hoose, I un’er- 
stan’; hut i’ the hoose doon i’ the toon — though that’s 
neither here nor there. I wadna won’er but the con- 
science micht be wankin’ up intil him! Some day it 
maun wauk up. He’ll be sorry, maybe, whan he kens 
himsel’ upo’ the border whaur respec’ o’ persons is ower, 
an’ a woman ’s as guid ’s a man — maybe a wheen better! 
The Lord ’ill set a’ thing richt, or han’ ’t ower til 
anither!” 


CHAPTER LIV. 

LADY ARCTURA’S ROOM. 

The next day, when he saw Lady Arctura, Donal was 
glad to learn that, for all the excitement of the day be- 
fore, she had passed a good night, and never dreamed 
at all. 

“I’ve been thinking it all over, my lady,” he said, “and 
it seems to me that, if your uncle heard the noise of our 
plummet so near, the chimney can hardly rise from the 
floor you searched; for that room, you know, is half-way 
between the ground-floor and first floor. Still, sound does 
travel so! We must betake ourselves to measurement, 1 
fear. But another thing came into - my head last night 
which may serve to give us a sort of paralax. You said 
you heard the music in your own room; would you let me 
look about in it a little? something might suggest itself! 
Is it the room I saw you in once?” 

“Not that,” answered Arctura, “but the bedroom be- 
yond it. I hear it sometimes in either room, but louder 
in the bedroom. You can examine it when you please. 
If only you could find my bad dream, and drive it out! 
Will you come now?” 

“It is near the earl’s room; is there no danger of his 
hearing anything?” 

“Not the least. The room is not far from his, it is 
true, but it is not in the same block; there are thick walls 
between. Besides he is too ill to be up.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


293 


She led the way, and Donal followed her up the main 
staircase to the second floor, and into the small, curious, 
ancient room, evidently one of the oldest in the castle, 
which she had chosen for her sitting-room. Perhaps if 
she had lived less in the shadow, she might have chosen a 
less gloomy one; the sky was visible only through a little 
lane of walls and gables and battlements. But it was 
very charming, with its odd nooks and corners, recesses 
and projections. It looked an afterthought, the utiliza- 
tion of a space accidentally defined by rejection, as if 
every one of its sides were the wall of a distinct building. 

“I do wish, my lady,” said Donal, “you would not sit 
so much where is so little sunlight! Outer and inner 
things are in their origin one; the light of the sun is the 
natural world-clothing of the truth, and whoever sits 
much in the physical dark misses a great help to under- 
standing the things of the light. If I were your director,” 
he went on, “I would counsel you to change this room for 
one with a broad, fair outlook; so that, when gloomy 
thoughts hid God from you, they might have his eternal 
contradiction in the face of his heaven and earth.” 

“It is but fair to tell you,” replied Arctura, “that 
Sophia would have had me do so; but while I felt about 
God as she taught me, what could the fairest sunlight be 
to me?” 

“Yes, what indeed!” returned Donal. “Do you 
know,” he added presently, his eyes straying about the 
room, “I feel almost as if I were trying to understand a 
human creature- A house is so like a human mind, 
which gradually disentangles and explains itself as you 
go on to know it! It is no accidental resemblance, for, 
as an unavoidable necessity, every house must belike those 
that built it.” 

“But in a very old house,” said Arctura, “so many 
hands of so many generations have been employed in the 
building, and so many fancied as well as real necessities 
have been at work, that it must be a conflict of many 
natures.” 

“But where the house continues in the same family, 
the builders have more or less transmitted their nature, 
as well as their house, to those who come after them.” 

“Do you think then,” said Arctura, almost with a 
shudder, “that I inherit a nature like the house left me — 


294 


BONAL GRANT. 


that the house is an outside to me — fits my very self as 
the shell fits the snail ?” 

“The relation of outer and inner is there, but there is 
given with it an infinite power to modify. Every one is 
born nearer to God than to any ancestor, and it rests with 
him to cultivate either the godness or the selfness in 
him, his original or his mere ancestral nature. The fight 
between the natural and the spiritual man is the history 
of the world. The man who sets right his faults in- 
herited, makes atonement for the sins of those who went 
before him; he is baptized for the dead, not with water 
but with fire.” 

“That seems to me strange doctrine, ” said Arctura, 
with tremulous objection. 

“If you do not like it, do not believe it. We inherit 
from our ancestors vices no more than virtues, but ten- 
dencies to both. Vice in my great-great-grandfather may 
in me be an impulse.” 

“How horrible!” cried Arctura. 

“To say that we inherit sin from Adam, horrifies no- 
body; the source is so far back from us, that we let the 
stream fill our cisterns unheeded; but to say we inherit it 
from this or that nearer ancestor, causes the fact to as- 
sume its definite and individual reality, and make a cor- 
respondent impression.” 

“Then you allow that it is horrible to think one’s self 
under the influence of the vices of certain wicked people, 
through whom we come where we are?” 

“I would allow it, were it not that God is nearer to us 
than any vices, even were they our own; he is between us 
and those vices. But in us they are not vices — only pos- 
sibilities, which become vices when they are yielded to. 
Then there are at the same time all sorts of counteracting 
and redeeming influences. It may be that wherein a 
certain ancestor was most wicked, his wife was especially 
lovely. He may have been cruel, and she tender as the 
hen that gathers her chickens under her wing. The main 
danger is, perhaps, of being caught in some sudden gust 
of unsuspected impulse, and carried away of the one ten- 
dency before the other has time to assert and the will to 
rouse itself. But those who doubt themselves and try to 
do right may hope for warning. Such will not, I think, 
be allowed to go far out of the way for want of that. 
Self-confidence is the worst traitor .’ 5 


DONAL GRANT. 


295 


“You comfort me a little.” 

“And then you must remember,” continued Donal, 
“that nothing in its immediate root is evil; that from 
best human roots worst things spring. No one, for in- 
stance, will be so full of indignation, of fierceness, of re- 
venge, as the selfish man born with a strong sense of jus- 
tice. But yon say this is not the room in which you hear 
the music best?” 

“No, it is here.” 


CHAPTER LV. 

HER BED-CHAMBER. 

Lady Arctura opened the door of her bedroom. 
Donal glanced round it. It was as old-fashioned as the 
other. 

“What is behind that press there— wardrobe, I think 
you call it?” he asked. 

“Only a recess,” answered Lady Arctura. “The press, 
I am sorry to say, is too high to get into it.” 

Possibly had the press stood in the recess, the latter 
would have suggested nothing; but having caught sight 
of the opening behind the press, Donal was attracted by 
it. It was in the same wall with the fireplace, but did 
not seem formed by the projection of the chimney, for it 
did not go to the ceiling. 

“Would you mind if I moved the wardrobe a little on 
one side?” he asked. 

“Do what you like,” she answered. 

Donal moved it, and found the recess rather deep for its 
size. The walls of the room were wainscoted to the 
height of four feet or so, but the recess was bare. There 
were signs of hinges on one, and of a bolt on the other of 
the front edges: it had seemingly been once a closet, 
whose door continued the wainscot. There were no signs 
of shelves in it; the plaster was smooth. 

But Donal was not satisfied. He took a big knife from 
his pocket, and began tapping all round. The moment 
he came to the right-hand side, there was a change in the 
sound. 


296 


DONAL QUANT. 


“You don’t mind if I make a little dust, my lady?” he 
said. 

“Do anything you please,” answered Arctura. 

He sought in several places to drive the point of his 
knife into the plaster; it would nowhere enter it more 
than a quarter of an inch: here was no built wall, he be- 
lieved, but one smooth stone. He found nothing like a 
joint till he came near the edge of the recess; there was a 
limit of the stone, and he began at once to clear it. It 
gave him a straight line from the bottom to the top of the 
recess, where it met another at right angles. 

“There does seem, my lady,” he said, “to be some kind 
of closing up here, though it may of course turn out of no 
interest to us! Shall I go on, and see what it is?” 

“By all means,” she answered, but turned pale as she 
spoke. 

Donal looked at her anxiously. She understood his 
look. 

“You must not mini my feeling a little silly,” she said. 
“I am not silly enough to give way to it.” 

He went on again with his knife, and had presently 
cleared the outlines of a stone that filled nearly all the 
side of the recess. He paused. 

‘Go on! go on!” said Arctura. 

“I must first get a better tool or two,” answered Donal. 
“Will you mind being left?” 

“I can bear it. But do not be long. A few minutes 
may evaporate my courage.” 

Donal hurried away to get a hammer and chisel, and a 
pail to put the broken plaster in. Lady Arctura stood 
and waited. The silence closed in upon her. She began 
to feel eerie. She felt as if she had but to will and see 
through the wall to what lay beyond it. To keep herself 
from so willing, she had all but reduced herself to mental 
inaction, when she started to her feet with a smothered 
cry: a knock not over gentle sounded on the dooY of the 
outer room. She darted to the bedroom door and flung it 
to — next to the press, and with one push had it nearly in 
its place. Then she opened again the door, thinking to 
wait for a second knock on the other before she answered. 
But as she opened the inner, the outer door also opened — 
slowly— and a lace looked in. She would rather have had 
a visitor from behind the press! It was her uncle; his 


DONAL GRANT. 


297 


face cadaverous; his eyes dull, but with a kind of glitter 
in them; his look like that of a housebreaker. In terror 
of himself, in terror lest he should discover what they 
had been about, in terror lest Donal should appear, wish- 
ing to warn the latter, and certain that, early as it was, 
her uncle was not himself, with intuitive impulse, the 
moment she saw him, she cried out: 

“Uncle! what is that behind you?” 

She felt afterward, and was very sorry, that it was both 
a deceitful and cruel thing to do; but she did it, as I have 
said, by a swift, unreflecting instinct — which she con- 
cluded, in thinking about it, came from the ready craft 
of some ancestor, and illustrated what Donal had been 
saying. 

The earl turned like one struck on the back, imagined 
something of which Arctura knew nothing, cowered to 
two-thirds of his height, and crept away. Though her- 
self trembling from head to foot, Arctura was seized with 
such a pity, that she followed him to his room; but she 
dared not go in. She stood a moment in the passage 
within sight of his door, and thought she heard his bell 
ring. Now Simmons might meet Donal! In a moment 
or two, however, she was relieved. Donal came round a 
turn, carrying his implements. She signed to him to 
make haste, and he was just safe inside her room when 
Simmons came along on his way to his master’s. She drew 
the door to, as if she had been just coming out, and said: 

“Knock at my door as you return, and tell me how 
your master is; I heard his bell.” 

She then begged Donal to go on with his work, but 
stop it the moment she made a noise with the handle of 
the door, and resumed her place outside till Simmons 
should reappear. Full ten minutes she stood waiting; it 
seemed an hour. Though she heard Donal at work 
within, and knew Simmons must soon come, though the 
room behind her was her own, and familiar to her from 
childhood, the long empty passage in front of her ap- 
peared frightful. What might not come pacing along 
toward her! At last she heard her uncle’s door — steps — ■ 
and the butler approached. She shook the handle of the 
door, and Donal’s blows ceased. “I can’t make him out, 
my lady!” said Simmons. “It is nothing very bad, I 
think, this time; but he gets worse and worse — always 


298 


DONAL GRANT. 


taking more and more o’ them horrid drugs. It’s no use 
trying to hide it: he’ll drop off sudden one o’ these days! 
I’ve heard say laudanum don’t shorten life; but it’s not 
one nor two, nor half a dozen sorts o’ laudanums he keeps 
mixing in that poor inside o’ his! The end must come, 
and what will it be? It’s better you should be prepared 
for it when it do come, my lady. I’ve just been a giving 
of him some into his skin — -with a little sharp pointed 
thing, a syringe, you know, my lady; he says it’s the only 
way to take some medicines. He’s just a slave to his 
medicines, my lady!” 

As soon as he was gone, Arctura returned to Donal. 
He had knocked the plaster away and uncovered a slab 
very like one of the great stones on some of the roofs. 
The next thing was to prize it from the mortar, and that 
was not difficult. The instant he drew the stone away, a 
dank chill assailed them, accompanied by a humid smell, 
as from a long-closed cellar. They stood and looked, 
now at each other, now at the opening in the wall, where 
was nothing but darkness. The room grew cold and 
colder. Donal was anxious as to how Arctura might stand 
what discovery lay before them, and she was anxious to 
read his sensations. For her sake he tried to hide all ex- 
pression of the awe that was creeping over him, and it 
gave him enough to do. 

“We are not far from something, my lady!” he said. 
“It makes one think of what He said who carries the light 
everywhere — that there is nothing covered that shall not 
be revealed, neither hid that shall not be known. Shall 
we leave it for the present?” 

“Anything but that!” said Arctura with a shiver; 
“anything but an unknown terrible something!” 

“But what can you do with it?” 

“Let the daylight in upon it.” 

Her color returned as she spoke, and a look of deter- 
mination came into her eyes. 

“You will not be afraid to be left then when I go 
down?” 

“I am cowardly enough to be afraid, but not cowardly 
enough to let you go alone. I will share with you. I 
shall not be afraid — not much — not too much, I mean — if 
I am with you.” 

Donal hesitated. 


DONAL GRANT. 


299 


“See!” she went on, “I am going to light a candle, and 
ask you to come down with me — if down it be; it may 
be up!” 

“I am ready, my lady,” said Donal. 

She lighted the candle. 

“Had we not better lock the door, my lady?” 

“That might set them wondering,” she answered. 
“We should have to lock both the doors of this room, or 
else both the passage-doors! The better way will be to pull 
the press after us when we are behind it.” 

“You are right, my lady. Please take some matches 
with you.” 

“To be sure.” 

“You will carry the candle, please. I must have my 
hands free. Try to let the light shine past me as much 
as you can, that I may see where I am going. But I 
shall depend most on my hands and feet.” 


CHAPTER LVI. 

THE LOST ROOM. 

Donal then took the light from her hand, and looked 
in. The opening went into the further wall and turned 
immediately to the left. He gave her back the candle, 
and went in. Arctura followed close. 

There was a stair in the thickness of the wall, going 
down steep and straight. It was not wide enough to let 
them go abreast. 

“Put your hand ou my shoulder, my lady,” said Donal. 
“That will keep us together. If I fall, you must stand 
stock-still.” 

She put her hand on his shoulder, and they began their 
descent. The steps were narrow and high, therefore the 
stair was steep. They had gone down from thirty to 
thirty-five steps, when they came to a level passage, turn- 
ing again at right angles to the left. It was twice the 
width of the stair. Its sides, like those of the stair, were 
of roughly dressed stones, and unplastered. It led them 
straight to a strong door. It was locked, and in the rusty 
lock they could see the key from within. Tn the right 
was another door, a smaller one, which stood wide open, 


300 


DONAL GRANT. 


They went through, and by a short passage entered an 
opener space. Here on one side there seemed to be no 
wall, and they stood for a moment afraid to move lest they 
should tumble into darkness. But sending the light 
about, and feeling with hands and feet, they soon came 
to an idea of the place they were in. It was a little gal- 
lery, with arches on one side opening into a larger place, 
the character of which they could only conjecture, for 
nearly all they could determine was, that it went below 
and rose above where they stood. On the other side was 
a plain wall, such as they had had on both sides of them. 

They had been speaking in awe-filled whispers, and 
were now in silence endeavoring to send their light 
though the darkness beyond the arches. 

“Listen, my lady,” said Donal. 

From above their heads came a chord of the aerial 
music, soft and faint and wild! 

A strange effect it had! it was like news of the still airy 
night and the keen stars, come down through secret ways 
into the dark places of the earth, from spaces so wide 
that they seem the most awful of prisons! It sweetly 
fostered Arctura’s courage. 

“That must be how the songs of angels sounded, with 
news of high heaven, to the people of old!” she said. 

Donal was not in so high a mood. He was occupied at 
the moment with the material side of things. 

“We can’t be far,” he said, “from the place where our 
plummet came down! But let us try a little further.” 

The next moment they came against a cord, and at 
their feet was the weight of the clock. 

At the other end of the little gallery they came again to 
a door and again to a stair, turning to the right; and 
again they went down. Arctura kept up bravely. The 
air was not so bad as might have been feared, though it 
was cold and damp. This time they descended but a lit- 
tle way, and came to a landing place, on the right of 
which was a door. Donal raised a rusted latch and 
pushed; the door swung open against the wall, dropping 
from one hinge with the slight shock. Two steps more 
they descended, and stood on a stone floor. 

Donal thought at first they must be in one of the dun- 
geons, but soon bethought himself that they had not de* 
scended far enough for that, 


DONAL QUANT. 


301 


A halo of damp surrounded their candle; its weak light 
seemed scarcely to spread beyond it; for some moments 
they took in nothing of what was around them. The 
floor first began to reveal itself to DonaTs eye; in the 
circle of the light he saw, covered with dust as it was, its 
squares of black and white marble. Then came to him a 
gleam of white from the wall; it was a tablet; and at the 
other end was something like an altar, or a tomb. 

“We are in the old chapel of the castle he said. “But 
what is that?” he added instantly with an involuntary 
change of voice, and a shudder through his whole nervous 
being. 

Arctura turned; her hand sought his and clasped it 
convulsively. They stood close to something which the 
light itself had concealed from them. Ere they were con- 
scious of an idea concerning it, each felt the muscles of 
neck and face drawn, as if another power than their own 
invaded their persons. But they were live wills, and 
would not be overcome. They forced their gaze; percep- 
tion cleared itself; and slowly they saw and understood. 

With strangest dream-like incongruity and unfitness, 
the thing beside them was a dark bedstead, with carved 
posts and low wooden tester, richly carved! This in the 
middle of a chapel! But there was no speculation in 
them; they could only see, not think. Donal took the 
candle. From the tester hung large pieces of stuff that 
had once made heavy curtains, but seemed hardly now to 
have as much cohesion as the dust on a cobweb; it held 
together only in virtue of the lightness to which decay 
had reduced it. On the bed lay a dark mass, like bed- 
clothes and bedding not quite turned to dust — they could 
yet see something like embroidery in one or two places— 
dark like burnt paper or half-burnt flaky rags, horrid as 
a dream of dead love! 

Heavens! what was that shape in the middle? what 
was that on the black pillow? what was that thick line 
stretching toward one of the head-posts? They stared 
speechless. Arctura pressed close to Donal. His arm 
went round her to protect her from what threatened al- 
most to overwhelm himself — the inroad of an unearthly 
horror. Plain to the eyes of both, the form in the mid- 
dle of the bed was that of a human body, slowly crumb- 
ling where it lay. Bed and blankets and quilt, sheets 


302 


DONAL GRANT. 


and pillows had crumbled with it through the long wast- 
ing years, but something of its old shape yet lingered 
with the dust: that was the head that lay on the pillow, 
that was the line of a long arm that pointed across the 
pillow to the post. What was that hanging from the bed- 
post and meeting the arm? God in heaven! there was a 
staple in the post, and from the staple came a chain!— 
and there at its other end a ring, lying on the pillow! — 
and through it — yes, through it, the dust-arm passed! 
This was no mere death-bed ; it was a torture-bed — most 
likely a murder-bed; and on it yet lay the body that died 
on it — had lain for hundreds of years, unlifted for kindly 
burial: the place of its decease had been made its tomb — 
closed up and hidden away! 

A bed in a chapel, and one dead thereon ! how could it 
be? Had the woman — for Donal imagined the form yet 
showed it the body of a woman — been carried thither of 
her own desire, to die in a holy place? That could not be : 
there was the chain! Had she sought refuge there from 
some persecutor? If so, he has found her! She was a 
captive — mad perhaps, more likely hated and the victim 
of a terrible revenge; left, probably enough, to die of 
hunger or disease — neglected or tended, who could tell? 
One thing only was clear — that there she died, and there 
she was buried ! 

Arctura was trembling. Donal drew her closer, and 
would have taken her away. But she said in his -ear, as if 
in dread of distributing the dust: 

“I am not frightened — not very. It is only the cold, I 
think. ” 

They went softly to the other end of the chapel, almost 
clinging together as they went. They saw three narrow 
lancet windows on their right, but no glimmer came 
through them. 

They came to what had seemed an altar, and such it 
still seemed. But on its marble-top lay the dust plainly 
of an infant — sight sad as fearful, and full of agonizing 
suggestion! They turned away, nor either looked at the 
other. The awful silence of the place seemed settling on 
them like a weight. Donal made haste, nor did Arctura 
seem less anxious to leave it. 

When they reached the stair, he made her go first: he 
must be between her and the terror! As they passed the 


DONAL GRANT. 


303 


door on the other side of the little gallery — down whose 
spiracle had come no second breath — Donal said to himself 
he must question that door, but to Arctura he said noth- 
ing: she had had enough of inquiry for the moment! 

Slowly they ascended to Arctura’s chamber. Donal 
replaced the slab, and propped it in its position; gathered 
the plaster into the pail; replaced the press, and put a 
screw through the bottom of it into the floor. Arctura 
stood and watched him all the time. 

“You must leave your room again, my lady!” said 
Donal. 

“I will. I shall speak to Mistress Brookes at once.” 

“Will you tell her all about it?” 

“We must talk about that!” 

“How will she bear it,” thought Donal; “how after 
such an experience, can she spend the rest of the day 
alone? There is all the long afternoon and evening to be 
met!” 

He gave the last turn to the screw in the floor, and rose. 
Then first he saw that Arctura had turned very white. 

“Do sit down, my lady!” he said. “I would run for 
Mistress Brookes, but I dare not leave you.” 

“No, no; we will go down together! Give me that 
bottle of eau de Cologne, please.” 

Donal did not know either eau de Cologne or its bottle, 
but he darted to the dressing-table and guessed correctly. 
It revived her, and she began to take deep breaths. Then 
with a strong effort she rose to go down. 

The time for speech concerning what they had seen was 
not come! 

“Would you not like, my lady,” said Donal, to come to 
the schoolroom this afternoon? You could sit beside 
while I give Davie his lessons!” 

“Yes,” she answered at once; “I should like it much! 
Is there not something you could give me to do? Will 
you not teach me something?” 

“I should like to begin you with Greek, and teach you 
a little mathematics — geometry first of all.” 

“You frighten me!” 

“Your fright wouldn’t outlast the beginning,” said 
Donal. “Anyhow, you will have Davie and me for com- 
pany! You must be lonely sometimes! You see little of 
Miss Carmichael now, I fancy.” 


304 


DONAL GRANT. 


“She has not been near me since that day in the avenue! 
We salute now and then coming out of church. She will 
not come again except I ask her; and I shall be in no 
haste: she would only assume I was sorry, and could not 
do without her!” 

“I would let her wait, my lady!” said Donal. “She 
sorely wants humbling!” 

“You do not know her, Mr. Grant, if you think any- 
thing I could do would have that effect on her.” 

“Pardon me, my lady; I did not imagine it your task 
to humble her! But yon need not let her ride over you 
as she used to do; she knows nothing really, and a great 
many things unreally. Unreal knowledge is worse than 
ignorance. Would not Miss Graeme be a better friend?’” 

“She is much more lovable; but she does not trouble 
her head about the things I care for. I mean religion,” 
she added hesitatingly. 

“So much the better ” 

“Mr. Grant!” 

“You did not let me finish, my lady! So much the 
better, I was going to say, till she begins to trouble her 
heart about it — or rather to untrouble her heart with it! 
The Pharisee troubled his head, and no doubt his con- 
science, too, and did not go away unjustified; but the poor 
publican, as we with our stupid pity would call him, trou- 
bled his heart about it; and that trouble once set a going, 
there is no fear. Head and all must soon follow. But 
how am I to get rid of this plaster without being seen?” 

“I will show you the way to your own stair without 
going down — the way we came once, you may remember. 
You can take it to the top of the house till it is dark. 
But I do not feel comfortable about my uncle’s visit. Can 
it be that he suspects something? Perhaps he knows all 
about the chapel — and that stair too!” 

“He is a man to enjoy having a secret! But our dis- 
covery bears out what we were saying as to the likeness of 
house and man — does it not?” 

“You don’t mean there is anything like that in me?” 
rejoined Arctura, looking frightened. 

“You!” he exclaimed. “But I mean no individual 
application,” he added, “except as reflected from the 
general truth. This house is like every human soul, and 
so, like me and you and all of us. We have found the 


DONAL GRANT. 


305 


chapel of the house, the place they used to pray to God 
in, built up, lost, forgotten, filled with dust and damp — 
and the moldering dead lying there before the Lord, wait- 
ing to be made live again and praise him!” 

“I said you meant me!” murmured Arctura, with a 
faint, sad smile. 

“No; the time is past for that. It is long since first 
you were aware of the dead self in the lost chapel; a hun- 
gry soul soon misses both, and knows, without being sure 
of it, that they are somewhere. You have kept searching 
for them in spite of all persuasion that the quest was 
foolish.” 

Arctura’s eyes shone in her paleface; but they shone 
with gathering tears. Donal turned away, and took up 
the pail. She rose, and guided him to his tower-stair, 
where ne went up and she went down. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

THE HOUSEKEEPER’S ROOM. 

As the clock upon the schoolroom chimney-piece struck 
the hour, Arctura entered, and at once took her seat at 
the table with Davie — much to the boy’s wonder and 
pleasure. Donal gave her a Euclid, and set her a task; 
she began at once to learn it — and after a while so brief 
that Davie stared incredulous, said : 

“If you please, Mr. Grant, I think I could be ques- 
tioned upon it now.” 

Less than a minute sufficed to show Donal that she 
thoroughly understood what she had been learning, and 
he set her then a little more. By the time their work 
was over he had not a doubt left that such like intellectual 
occupation would greatly subserve all phases of her health. 
With entireness she gave herself to the thing she had to 
do; and Donal thought how strong must be her nature, 
to work so calmly, and think so clearly, after what she 
had gone through that morning. 

School over, and Davie gone to his rabbits. 

“Mistress Brookes invites us to supper with her,” said 
Lady Arctura. “I asked her to ask us. I don’t want to 
go to bed till I am quite sleepy. You don’t mind, do 
yon?” 


306 


DONAL GRANT. 


“I am very glad, my lady,” responded Donal. 

“Don’t you think we had bet'er tell her all about it?” 

“As you think fit. The secret is in no sense mine; it 
is only yours; and the sooner it ceases to be a secret the 
better for all of us!” 

“I have but one reason for keeping it,” she returned. 

“Your uncle?” 

“Yes; I know he will be annoyed. But there may be 
other reasons why I should reveal the thing.” 

*‘There may, indeed!” said Donal. 

“Still, I should be sorry to offend him more than I can 
help. If he were a man like my father, I should never 
dream of going against him; I should in fact leave every- 
thing to him he cared to attend to. But seeing he is the 
man he is, it would be absurd. I dare not let him man- 
age my affairs for me much longer. I must understand 
for myself how things are going.” 

“You will not, I hope, arrange anything without the 
presence of a lawyer! I fear I have less confidence in 
your uncle than you have!” 

Arctura made no reply, and Donal was afraid he had 
hurt her; but the next moment she looked up with a sad 
smile, and said : 

“Well, poor man! we will not compare our opinions of 
him; he is my father’s brother, and I shall be glad not to 
offend him. But my father would have reason to be dis- 
satisfied if I left everything to my uncle as if he had not 
left everything to me. If he had been another sort of 
man, my father would surely have left the estate to him!” 

At nine o’clock they met in the housekeeper’s room — 
low-ceiled, large, lined almost round with oak presses, 
which were Mistress Brookes’ delight. She welcomed 
them as to her own house, and made an excellent hostess. 

But Donal would not mix the tumbler of toddy she 
would have had him take. For one thing he did not like 
his higher to be operated upon from his lower; it made 
him feel as if possessed by a not altogether real self. But 
the root of his objection lay in the teaching of his mother. 
The things he had learned of his parents were to him his 
patent of nobility, vouchers that he was honorably de- 
scended; of his birth he was as proud as any man. "And 
hence this night he was led to talk of his father and 
mother, and the things of his childhood. He told Arc- 


DONAL GRANT. 


307 

tura all about the life he had led; how at one time he 
kept cattle in the fields, at another sheep on the moun- 
tains; how it came that he was sent to college, and all the 
story of Sir Gibbie. The night wore on. Arctura listened 
— did nothing but listen; she was enchanted. And it 
surprised Donal himself to find how calmly he could now 
look back upon what had seemed to threaten an everlast- 
ing winter of the soul. It was indeed the better thing 
that Ginevra should be Gibbie’s wife! 

A pause had come, and he had fallen into a brooding 
memory of things gone by, when a sudden succession of 
quick knocks fell on his ear. He started— strangely af- 
fected. Neither of his companions took notice of it, 
though it was now past one o’clock. It was like a knock- 
ing with knuckles against the other side of the wail of 
the room. 

“What can that be?” he said, listening for more. 

“H’ard ye never that ’afore, Maister Grant?” said the 
housekeeper. “I hae grown sae used til’t my ears hardly 
tak notice o’ ’t!” 

“What is it?” asked Donal. 

“Ay, what is’t? Tell ye me that gien ye can,” she re- 
turned. “It’s jist a chappm’, an’ God’s trowth it’s a’ I 
ken aboot the same! It comes, I believe I’m safe to say, 
ilka nicht; but I couldna tak my aith upo’ ’t, I hae sae 
entirely drappit peyin’ ony attention til’t. There’s things 
aboot mony an auld hoose, Maister Grant, ’at’ll tak the 
day o’ judgment to explain them. But sae lang as they 
keep to their ain side o’ the wa’, I dinna see I need trib- 
ble my heid aboot them. Efter the experience I had as 
a yoong lass, awa doon in Englan’ yon’er, at a place my 
auntie got me intil — for she kenned a heap o’ gran’ fowk 
throuw bein’ hersel’ sae near conneckit wi’ them as hoose- 
keeper i’ the castle here — efter that, I’m sayin’, I wadna 
need to be that easy scaret!” 

“What was it?” said Lady Arctura. “I don’t think 
you ever told me.” 

“No, my dear lady; I wud never hae thocht o’ tellin’ 
ye ony sic story sae lang as ye was ower yoong no to be 
frichtit at it; for ’deed I think they’re muckle to blame 
’at tells bairns the verra things they’re no fit to hear, an’ 
fix the dreid ’afore the sense. But I s’ tell ye the noo, 
gien ye care to hear. It’s a some awsome story, but 


308 


DONAL GRANT. 


there’s something nnco fulish-like intil’t as weel. I can- 
na sav I think mickle o’ craters ’at trible their heids 
aboot their heids! But that’s tellin’ aforehan’!” 

Here the good woman paused thoughtful. 

“I am longing to hear your story, Mrs. Brookes,” said 
Donal, supposing she needed encouragement. 

“I’m but thinkin hoo to begin, she returned, “sae as 
to gie ye a richt baud o’ the thing — I’m thinkin’ I canna 
do better nor jist tell ’t as it cam tomysel’! Weel, ye 
see, I was but a yoong lass, aboot — weel, I micht be 
twenty, mair or less, whan I gaed'till the place I speak 
o’. It was awa’ upo’ the borders o’ Wales, like as gien 
folk ower there i’ Perth war doobtfu’ whether sic or sic a 
place was i’ the hi elan’s or the lowlan’s. The maister o’ 
the hoose wa« a yoong man awa’ upo’ ’s traivels, I kenna 
whaur — somewhaur upo’ the continent, but that’s a mickle 
word; an’ as he had the intention o’ bein’ awa’ for some 
time to come, no carin’ to settle doon all han’ an’ luik 
efter his ain, there was but ane gey auld wuman to boose- 
keep, an’ me to help her, an’ a man or twa aboot the 
place to luik efter the gairden — an’ that was a’. Hoose 
an’ gairden was to let, an’ was intil the han’s o’ ane o’ 
thae agents, as they ca’ them, for that same purpose — to 
let, that is, for a term o’ years. Weel, ae day there cam 
a gentleman to luik at the place, an’ he was sae weel 
pleased wi’ ’t — as weel he micht, for eh, it was a bonny 
place! — aye lauchin’ like, whaur this place is aye i’ the 
sulks! — na, no aye I dinna mean that, my lady, forget- 
tin’ ’at it’s yours! — but ye maun own it takes a heap o’ 
sun to gar this auld hoose here luik onything but some 
dour — an’ I beg yer pardon, my lady!” 

“You are quite right, Mistress Brookes!” said Arctura, 
with a smile. “If it were not for you it would be dour 
dour. You do not know, Mr. Grant — Mistress Brookes 
herself does not know how much I owe her! I should 
have gone out of my mind for very dreariness a hundred 
times but for her.” 

“The short an’ the lang o’ ’t was,” resumed Mistress 
Brookes, “that the place was let an’ the place was ta’en, 
mickle to the satisfaction o’ a’ pairties concernt. The 
auld hoosekeeper, she bein’ a fixtur like, was to bide, an’ 
I was to bide as weel, under the hoosekeeper, an’ haein’ 
nothing to do wi’ the stranger servan’s. 


DONAL GRANT. 


309 


“They cam. There was a gentleman o’ a middle age, 
an’ his leddy some voonger nor himseP, han’some but no 
bonny — but that has naething to do wP my tale ’at I 
should tak up yer time wi’ ’t, an’ it growin’ some late.” 

“Never mind the time, Mistress Brookes,” said Arc- 
tura; “we can do just as we please about that! One time 
is as good as another — isn’t it, Mr. Grant?” 

“I sometimes sit up half the night myself,” said Donal. 
“I like to know God’s night. Only it won’t do often, 
lest we make the brain, which is God’s too, like a watch 
that won’t go.” 

“It’s sair upsettin’ to the wark!” said the housekeeper. 
“What would the hoose be like if I was to do that!” 

“Do go on, please, Mistress Brookes,” said Arotura. 

“Please do,” echoed Donal. 

“Sir, an’ my lady, I’m ready to sit till the cocks be 
dune crawin’, an the day dune dawnin’ to pleasur the ane 
or the twa o’ ye! — an sae for my true tale! They war 
verra dacent, weel-behavet fowk, wi’ a fine family, some 
grown an’ some growin’. It was jist a fawvour to see sic 
a halesome clan — frae auchteen or thereawa’ doon to the 
wee toddlin’ lassie was the varra aipple o’ the e’e to a’ the 
e’en aboot the place! But that’s naither here nor yet 
there! A’ gaed on as a’ should gang on whaur the serv- 
an’s are no ower gran’ for their ain wark, nor ower med- 
dlesome wi’ the wark o’ their neeburs; naething was neg- 
leckit, nor onything girned aboot; but a’ was peace an’ 
harmony, as quo’ the auld sang about bonny Kilmeny — 
that is, till ae nicht. Ye see I’m tellin’ ye as it cam’ to 
mysel’ an’ no til anither! 

“As I lay i’ my bed that nicht — an’ ye may be sure at 
my age I lay nae langer nor jist to turn me ower ance, 
an’ in general no that ance — jist as I was fa’in asleep, up 
gat sic a romage i’ the servan’s ha’, straucht ’aneth whaur 
I was lyin’, that I thoucht to mysel’, what upo’ earth’s 
come to the place! ‘Gien it bena the day o’ judgment, 
troth it’s no the day o’ sma’ things!’ I said. It was as 
gien a’ the cheirs an’ tables thegither was bein’ rotit oot 
o’ their places, an’ syne set back again, an’ the tables 
turnt heels ower heid, an’ a’ the glaiss an’ a’ the plate for 
the denner knockit aboot as gien they had r»een sae mony 
hailstanes that warna wantit ony mair, but micht jist lie 
whaur they fell I couldna for the life o’ me think what 


310 


DONAL GRANT. 


it micht betoken, save an’ excep’ a general frenzy had 
seized upo’ man an’ wuman i’ the boose! I got up in a 
hurry; whatever was gaein’ on, I wudna wllin’ly gang 
wantin’ my share o’ the sicht! An’ just as I opened my 
door, wha should I hear but the maister cryin’ at the heid 
o’ the stair — ‘What i’ the name o’ a’ that’s holy,’ says he, 
‘is the meanin’ o’ this?’ An’ I ran til him, oot o’ the 
passage, an’ through the swing-door, into the great cor- 
ridor; an’ says I — ‘’Deed, sir, I was won’erin’! an’ wi’ 
yer leave, sir, I’ll gang an’ see,’ I said, gaitherin’ my 
shawl aboot me as weel as I could to hide what was ’aneth 
it, or raither what wasna ’aneth it, for I hadna that 
mickle on. But says he, ‘No, no, you must not go; who 
knows what it may be? I’ll go myself. They may be 
robbers, and the men fighting them. You stop where 
you are.’ Sayin’ that, he was half- ways doon the stair. 
I stood wliaur I was, lookin’ doon an’ hearkenin’, an’ the 
noise still goin’ on. But he could but hae won the len’th 
o’ the hall, whan it stoppit a’ at ance an’ a’thegither. 
Ye may think what a din it maun hae been, whan I tell 
ye the quaiet that cam upo’ the heels o’ ’t jist seemed to 
sting my twa lugs. The same moment I li’ard the mais- 
ter cryin’ til me to come doon. I ran, an’ whan I reached 
the servan’s ha’, whaur he stood jist inside the door, I 
stood aside him an’ glowered. For, wad ye believe me! 
the place was as dacent an’ still as ony kirkyard i’ the 
munelicht! There wasna a thing oot o’ its place, nor an 
air o’ dist, nor the sma’est disorder to be seen! A’ the 
things luikit as gien they had sattlet themsel’s to sleep as 
usual, an’ had sleepit till we cam an’ waukit them. The 
maister. glowert at me, an’ I glowert at the maister. But 
a’ he said was — ‘A false alarm, ye see, Rose!’ What he 
thoucht I canna tell, but withoot anither word we turnt, 
an’ gaed up the stair again thegither. 

“At the tap o’ the stair, the lang corridor ran awa’ intil 
the dark afore ’s, for the can’le the maister carried flangna 
licht half to the en’ o’ ’t; an’ frae oot o’ the mirk on a 
suddent cam to meet ’s a rampaugin’ an’ a rattling like o’ 
a score o’ nowt rinnin’ awa’ wi’ a’ their iron tethers aboot 
their necks — sic a rattlin’ o’ iron chains as ye never h’ard! 
an a groanin’ an’ a gruntin’ jist fearsome. Again we 
stood an’ luikit at ane anither; an’ my word! but the 
maister’s face was eneuch to fricht a body o’ ’tsel’, lat 


DONAL GRANT. 


311 


alone the thing we h’ard an’ saw naething til accoont for! 
‘Gang awa’ back to yer bed, Rose,’ he said; ‘this’ll never 
do!’ ‘An’ hoo are ye to help it, sir?’ said I. ‘That I 
cannot tell,’ answered he; ‘but I wouldn’t for the world 
your mistress heard it. I left her fast asleep, and I hope 
she’ll sleep through it. Did you ever hear anything 
strange about the house before we came?’ ‘Never, sir,’ 
said I, ‘as sure as I stan’ here shiverin’!’ — for the nicht 
was i’ the simmer, an’ warm to that degree! an’ yet I was 
shiverin’ as i’ the cauld fit o’ a fivver; an’ my moo’ wud 
hardly consent to inak the words I soucht to frame! 

“We stood like mice ’afore the cat for a minute or twa, 
but there cam naething mair; au’ by degrees we grew a 
kin’ o’ ashamet, like as gien we had been doobtfu’ as to 
whether we had h’ard onything; an’ whan again he said 
to me gang to my bed, I gaed to my bed, an’ wasna Jang 
upo’ the ro’d, for fear I wud hear onything mair — an’ 
intil my bed, an’ my heid ’aneth the claes, an’ lay trim- 
hn’. But there was nane mair o’ ’t that nicht, an’ I 
wasna ower sair owercome to fa’ asleep. 

“I’ the mornin’ I tellt the hoosekeeper a’ aboot it; but 
she held her tongue in a mainner that was, to say the 
least o’ ’t, verra strange. She didna lauch, nor she didna 
grue nor yet glower, nor yet she didna say the thing was 
nonsense, but she jist h’ard an’ saidna a word. I thoucht 
wi’ mysel’, is’t possible she disna believe me? but I could- 
na mak that oot aither. Sae as she heild her tongue, I 
jist pu’d the bridle o’ mine, an’ vooed there should be 
never anither word said by me till ance she spak hersel’. 
An’ I wud sune hae had eneuch o’ haudin my tongue, 
but I hadna to baud it to onybody but her; an’ I cam to 
the conclusion that she was feart o’ bein speirt questions 
by them ’at had a richt to speir them, for that she had 
h’ard o’ something ’afore, an’ kenned mair nor she was 
at leeberty to speak aboot. 

“But that was only the heginnin’, an’ little to what 
followed ! For frae that nicht there wasna ae nicht passed 
but some ane or two disturbit, an’ whiles it was past a’ 
abidin’. The noises, an’ the rum’lin’s, an’ abune a’ the 
clankin’ o’ chains, that gaed on i’ that hoose, an’ the 
groans, an’ the cries, an’ whiles the whustlin’, an’ what 
was ’maist waur nor a’, the lauchin’, was something dreid- 
fu’, an’ ’ayont beleivin’ to ony but them ’at was intil’t. 


312 


DONAL GRANT. 


I sometimes think maybe the terror o’ ’t maks it Inik 
waur i’ the recollection nor it was; but I canna keep my 
senses an’ no believe there was something a’thegither by 
ord’nar i’ the affair. An’ whan, or lang, it cam to the 
knowledge o’ the lady, an’ she was waukit up at nicht, 
an’ h’ard the thing, whatever it was, an’ syne whan the 
bairns war waukit up, an’ aye the romage, noo i’ this 
room, noo i’ that, sae that the leevin’ wud be cryin’ as 
lood as the deid, though they could ill mak sic a din, it 
was beyond a’ beirin’, an’ the maister made up his min’ 
to flit at ance, come o’ ’t what micht! 

‘‘For, as I oucht to hae tellt ye, he had written to the 
owner o’ the hoose, that was my ain mister— for it wasna 
a hair o’ use sayin’ onything further to the agent: he 
only leuch, an’ declaret it maun be some o’ his ain folk 
was playin’ tricks upon him — which it angert him to hear, 
bein’ as impossible as it wasfause; sae straucht awa’ to 
his lan’lord he wrote, as I say; but as he was travelin’ 
aboot on the continent, he supposed either the letter had 
not reached him an’ never wud reach him, or he was 
shelterin’ himsel’ under the idea they wud think he had 
never had it, no wantin’ to move in the matter. But the 
verra day he had made up his min’ that nothing should 
make him spend another week in the house, for Monday 
nights were always the worst, there cam a letter from the 
gentleman, sayin’ that only that same hoor that he was 
writin’ had he received the maister’s letter; an’ he was 
sorry he had not had it before, but prayed him to put up 
with things till he got to him, and he would start at the 
furthest in two days more, and would set the thing right 
in less time than it would take to tell him what was amiss. 
A strange enough letter to be sure! Mr. Harper, that 
was their butler, told me he had read every word of it! 
And so, as not to mention the terrors of the nicht, the 
want of rest was like to ruin us altogether, we were all on 
the outlook for the appearance of oor promised deliverer, 
sae cock-sure o’ settin’ things straucht again. 

“ Weel, at last, an’ that was in a verra feow days, 
though they luikit lang to some i’ that hoose, he appearit 
— a nice-luikit gentleman, wi’ sae sweet a smile it wasna 
hard to believe whate’er he tellit ye. An’ he had a licht, 
airy w’y wi’ him, that was to us oppresst craturs strangely 
comfortin’, ill as it was to believe he could ken what had 


DONAL QUANT. 


313 

been goin’ on, an’ treat it i’ that fashion! Hooever — an’ 
noo, my lady, an’ Mr. Grant, I hae to tell ye what the 
butler told me, for I wasna present to hear for mysei’. 
Maybe he wouldn’t have told me, but that he wasn’t an 
old man, though twice my age, an’ seemt to have taken a 
likin’ to me, though it never came to anything; an’ as I 
was always ceevil to any person that was ceevil to me, an’ 
never went further than was becomin’, he made me the 
return o’ talkin’ to me at times, an’ tellin’ me what he 
knew. 

“The young gentleman was to stop an’ lunch with the 
master, an’ i’ the mean time would have a glass o’ wine 
an’ a biscuit; an’ pullin’ a hunch o’ keys from his pocket, 
he desired Mr. Harper to take a certain one and go to the 
door that was locked inside the wine-cellar, and bring a 
bottle from a certain bin. Harper took the key, an’ was 
just goin’ from the room, when he h’ard the visitor— 
though in truth he was more at hame there than any of 
us — h’ard him say, ‘I’ll tell you what you’ve been doing, 
sir, and you’ll tell me whether I’m not right!’ Hearin’ 
that, the butler drew the door to, but not that close, and 
made no haste to leave it, and so h’ard what followed. 

“ ‘I’ll tell you what you’ve been doin’,’ says he. 
‘Didn’t you find a man’s head — a skull, I mean, upon the 
premises?’ ‘Well, yes, I believe we did, when I think of 
it!’ says the master; ‘for my butler’ — an’ there was the 
butler outside a listenin’ to the whole tale — ‘my butler 
came to me one mornin’, sayin’, “Look here, sir! this- is 
what I found in a little box, close by the door of the wine- 
cellar! It’s a skull!” “Oh,” said I’ — it was the master 
that was speakin’ — ‘ “it’ll be some medical student has 
brought it home to the house!” So he asked me what he 
had better do with it.’ ‘And you told him,’ interrupted 
the gentleman, ‘to bury it!’ ‘I did; it seemed the proper 
thing to do.’ ‘I hadn’t a doubt of it!’ said the gentle- 
man; ‘that is the cause of all the disturbance.’ ‘That?’ 
says the master. ‘That, and nothing else,’ answers the 
gentleman. And with that, as Harper confessed when he 
told me, there cam ower him such a horror that he daured 
nae longer stan’ at the door; but for goin’ doon to the 
cellar to fetch the bottle o’ wine, that was merely beyond 
his human faculty. As it happened, I met him on the 
stair, as white as a sheet, an’ ready to drop. ‘What’s the 


314 


DONAL GRANT. 


matter, Mr. Harper?’ said I; and he told me all about it. 
‘Gome along/ I said; ‘we’ll go to the cellar together! 
It’s broad daylight, an’ there’s nothing to hurt us!’ So 
we went down. 

“ ‘There, that’s the box the thing was lyin’ in!’ said 
he, as we cam oot o’ the wine-cellar. An’ wi’ that cam a 
groan oot o’ the verra ground at oor feet! We both h’ard 
it, an’ stood shakin’ an’ dumb, grippin’ ane anither. ‘I’m 
sure I don’t know what in the name o’ heaven it can all 
mean!’ said he — but that was when we were on the way 
up again. ‘Did ye show ’t ony disrespec’?’ said I. ‘No,’ 
said he; ‘I but buried it, as I would anything else that 
had to be putten out o’ sight.’ An’ as we wur talkin’ 
together — that was at the top o’ the cellar-stair — there 
cam a great ringin’ at the bell, an’ said he, ‘They’re won- 
’erin’ what’s came o’ me an’ their wine, an’ weel they 
may! I maun rin.’ As soon as he entered the room — 
an’ this again, ye may see, my leddy an’ Maister Grant, 
he tellt me efterward — ‘Whaur did ye bury the heid ye 
tuik frae the cellar?’ said his master til him, an’ speiredna 
a word as to hoo he had been sae lang gane for the wine. 
*T buried it i’ the garden,’ answered he. ‘I hope you 
know the spot!’ said the strange gentleman. ‘Yes, sir, I 
do,’ said Harper. ‘Then come and show me/ said he. 

“So the three of them went oot thegither, an’ got a 
spade; an’ luckily the butler was able to show them at 
once the verra spot. An’ the gentleman he howkit up 
the skull wi’ his ain han’s, carefu’ not to touch it with 
the spade, an’ broucht it back in his ban’ to the hoose, 
knockin’ the earth aff it with his rough traivelin’ gluves. 
But when Harper lookit to be told to take it back to the 
place where he found it, an’ trembled at the thoucht, 
wonderin’ hoo he was to get baud o’ me an’ naebody the 
wiser, for he didna want to show fricht i’ the day-time, to 
his grit surprise an’ no sma’ pleesur, the gentleman set 
the skull on the chimley-piece. An’ as lunch had been 
laid i’ the meantime, for Mr. Heywood— I hae jist gotten 
a grup o’ his name— had to be awa’ again di'reckly, he 
h’ard the whole story as he waitit upo’ them. I suppose 
they thoucht it better he should hear an’ tell the rest, the 
sooner to gar them forget the terrors we had come throuw. 

“Said the gentleman, ‘Now you’ll have no more trouble. 
If you do, write to me, to the care o’— -so an’ so— an’ I’ll 


DONAL GRANT. 


315 


release von from your agreement. But please to remem- 
ber that you brought it on yourself by interfering, I can’t 
exactly say with my property, but with the property of 
one who knows how to defend it without calling in the 
aid of the law — which indeed would probably give him 
little satisfaction. It was the burying of that skull that 
brought on you all the annoyance.’ ‘I always thought,’ 
said the master, ‘the dead preferred having their bones 
buried. Their ghosts indeed, according to Cocker, either 
wouldna or couldna lie quiet until their bodies were prop- 
erly buried, where then could be our offense'?’ ‘You may 
say what you will,’ answered Mr. Ileywood, ‘and I cannot 
answer you, or preten’ to explain the thing; I only know 
that when that head is buried, these same disagreeables 
always ^begin.’ ‘Then is the head in the way of being 
buried and dug up again?’ asked the master. ‘I will tell 
you the whole story, if you like,’ answered his landlord. 
‘I would gladly hear it,’ says he, ‘for I would fain see 
daylight on the affair!’ ‘That I cannot promise you,’ he 
said; ‘but the story, as it is handed down in the family, 
you shall hear.’ 

“ You may be sure, my leddy, Harper was wide awake 
to hearken, an’ the more that he might tell it again in 
the ha’ ! 

“ ‘Somewhere about a hundred and fffty years ago,’ Mr. 
Heywood began, ‘on a cold, stormy night, there came to 
the hall-door a poor peddler’ — a traveling merchant, you 
know, my leddy — ‘with his pack on his back, and would 
fain have parted with some of his goods to the folk of the 
hall. The butler, who must have been a rough sort of 
man — they were rough times those — told him they wanted 
nothing he could give them, and to go about his business. 
But the man, who was something obstinate, I dare say, 
and, it may weel be, anxious to get shelter, as much for 
the nicht bein’ gurly as to sell his goods, keepit on beg- 
gin’ an’ implorin’ to lat the women-folk at the least luik 
at what he had broucht. At last the butler, oot o’ a’ pa- 
tience wi’ the man, ga’e him a great shove awa’ frae the 
door, sae that the poor man fell doon the steps, an’ bangt 
the door to, nor ever lookit to see whether the man gat 
up again or no. 

“ ‘I’ the mornin’ the peddler they faund him lyin’ deid 
in a little wud or shaw, no far frae the hoose. An’ wi’ 


316 


DONAL GRANT. 


that up got the cry, an’ what said they but that the butler 
had murdert him! Sae up he was ta’en an’ put upo’ ’s 
trial for’t. An’ whether the man was not likit i’ the 
country-side, I cannot tell/ said the gentleman, ‘but the 
cry was against him, and things went the wrong way for 
him — and that though no one aboot the hoose believed he 
had done the deed, more than he micht hae caused his 
death by pushin’ him doon the steps. An’ even that he 
could hardly have intendit, but only to get quit o’ him; 
an’ likely enough the man was weak, perhaps ill, an’ the 
weight o’ his pack on his back pulled him as he pushed.’ 
Still, efter an’ a’ — an’ it’s mysel’ ’a't’s sayin’ this, no the 
gentleman, my lady — in a pairt o’ the country like that, 
gey an’ lanely, it was not the nicht to turn a fallow crea- 
tur oot in! ‘The butler was, at the same time, an old 
and trusty servan’,’ said Mr. Heywood, ‘an’ his master 
was greatly concernt aboot the thing. It is impossible at 
this time o’ day/ he said, ‘to un’erstan’ boo such a thing 
could be — i’ the total absence o’ direc’ evidence, but the 
short an’ the weary lang o’ ’t was, that the man was 
hangt, an’ hung in irons for the deed. 

“ ‘An’ noo ye may be thinkin’ the ghaist o’ the puir 
peddler began to haunt the hoose; but naething o’ the 
kin’! There was nae disturbance o’ that, or ony ither 
sort. The man was deid an’ buried, whaever did or didna 
kill him, an’ the body o’ him that was said to hae killed 
him hung danglin’ i’ the win’, an’ naither o’ them said 
a word for or again the thing. 

“ ‘But the hert o’ the man’s maister was sair. He 
couldna help aye thinkin’ that maybe he was to blame, 
an’ micht hae done something mair nor he thoucht o’ at 
the time to get the puir man aff; for he was absolutely 
certain that, liooever rouch he micht hae been, an’ hoo- 
ever lie micht hae been the cause o’ deith to the trouble- 
some peddler, he hadna meant to kill him; it was, in 
pairt at least, an accident, an’ he thoucht the bangin’ o’ 
’im for ’t was hard lines. The maister was an auld man, 
nearhan’ auchty, an’ tuik things the mair seriously, I 
daursay, that he wasna that far frae the grave they had 
sent the puir butler til afore his time — gien that could be 
said o’ ane wbause grave was wi’ the weather-cock! An’ 
aye he tuik himsel’ to task as to whether he ouchtna to 
hae dune something mair — gane to the king maybe— for 


TONAL GRANT. 


317 


he couldna bide the thoucht o’ the puir man that had 
waitit upon him sae lang an’ faithful hingin’ an’ swing- 
in’ up there, an’ the flesh drappin’ all the banes o’ ’im, 
an’ still the banes hingin’ there, and swingin’ an’ creak- 
in’ an’ cryin’! The thoucht, I say, was sair upo’ the old 
man. But the time passed, an’ I kenna hoo lang or hoo 
short it may tak for a body in sic a position to come asun- 
’er, but at last the banes began to drap, an’ as they drap- 
pit, there they lay — at the fut o’ the gallows, for naebody 
caret to meddle wi’ them. An’ whan that cam to the 
knowledge o’ the auld gentleman, he sent his fowk to 
gether them up an’ bury them oot o’ sicht. An’ what 
was left o’ the body, the upper pairt, hauden thegither 
wi’ the irons, may be — I kenna weel hoo, hung an’ swung 
there still, in ilk win’ that blew. But at the last, oot o’ 
sorrow an’ respec’ for the deid, hooever he dee’d, his auld 
maister sent quaietly ae mirk nicht, an’ had the lave o’ 
the banes taen doon an’ laid i’ the earth. 

“ ‘But frae that moment, think ye there was ony peace 
i’ the hoose? A clankin’ o’ chains got up, an’ a howlin’, 
an’ a compleenin’, an’ a creakin’ like i’ the win’ — sic a 
stramash a’thegither, that the hoose was not fit to be 
leevit in whiles, though it wa some times waur nor ither 
times, an’ some thoucht it had to do wi’ the airt the win’ 
blew: aboot that I ken naething. But it gaed on like 
that for months, maybe years’ — Mr. Harper wasna sure 
hoo lang the gentleman said — ‘till the auld man ’maist 
wished hirnsel’ in o’ the grave an’ oot o’ the trouble. 

“ ‘At last ae day cam an auld man to see him — no sae 
auld as himsel’, but ane he had kenned whan they wur at 
the college thegither. An’ this was a man that had trav- 
eled greatly, an’ was weel learnt in a heap o’ things ordi- 
nal fowk, that gies themsel’s to the lan’, an’ the growin’ 
o’ corn, an’ beasts, is no likely to ken muckle aboot. He 
saw his auld freen’ was in trouble, an’ didna carry his 
age calm-like as was nat’ral, an’ sae speirt him what was 
the matter. An’ he told him the whole story, frae the 
hangin’ to the bangin’. “Weel,” said the learnit man, 
whan he had h’ard a’, “gien ye’ll tak my advice, ye’ll jist 
sen’ an’ howk up the heid, an’ tak it intil the hoose wi’ 
ye, an’ lat it bide there whaur it was used sae lang to be; 
— do that, an’ it’s my opinion ye’ll hear nae mair o’ sic 
unruly gangin’s on.” The auld gentleman tuik the ad- 


318 


DONAL GRANT. 


•i - 


vice, kennin , no better. But it was the richt advice, for 
frae that moment the romour was ower, they had nae 
mair o’ ’t. They laid the heid in a decent bit box i’ the 
cellar, an’ there it remaint, weel content there to abide 
the day o’ that jeedgment that’ll set mony anither jeedg- 
ment to the richt-aboot; though what pleesur could be 
intil that cellar mait nor in til a hole i’ the earth, is a 
thing no for me to say! So wi’ that generation there was 
nae mair trouble. 

“ ‘But i’ the course o’ time cam first ane an’ syne an- 
ither, wha forgot, maybe leuch at, the haill affair, an’ 
didna believe a word o’ the same. But they’re but fules 
that gang again the experience o’ their forbeirs! — what 
wud ye hae but they wud beery the heid! An’ what wud 
come o’ that but an auld dismay het up again! Up gat 
the din, the rampaugin’, the clankin’, an’ a’, jist the 
same as ’afore! But the minute that, frichtit at the con- 
sequences o’ their folly, they acknowledged the property 
o’ the ghaist in his ain heid, an’ tuik it oot o’ the earth 
an’ intil the hoose again, a’ was quaiet direc’ly — quaiet as 
hert could desire.’ 

“Sae that was the story! 

“An’ whan the lunch was ower, an’ Mr. Harper was 
thinkin’ the moment come whan they would order him to 
tak the heid, an’ him trimlin’ at the thoucht o’ touchin’ ’t, 
an’ lay’t whaur it was — an’ whaur it had sae aften been whan 
it had a sowl intil ’t, the gentleman got up, an’ says he 
til him, ‘Be so good,’ says he, ‘as fetch me my hat-box 
from the hall.’ Harper went an’ got it as desired, an’ 
the gentleman took an’ unlockit it, an’ roon’ he turnt 
whaur he stood, an’ up he tuik the skull frae the chimney- 
piece, neither as gien he lo’ed it nor feared it — as what 
reason had he to do either? — an’ han’let it neither rouchly 
nor wi’ ony show o’ mickle care, but intil the hat-box ft 
gaed, willy, nilly, an’ the lid shutten doon upo’ ’t, an’ 
the key turnt i’ the lock o’ ’t; an’ as gien he wad mak 
the thing richt sure o’ no bein’ putten again whaur it had 
sic an objection to gang, up he tuik in his han’ the hat- 
box, an’ the contrairy heid i’ the inside o’ ’t, an’ awa’ wi’ 
him on his traivels, here awa’ an’ there awa’ ower the 
face o’ the globe: he was on his w’y to Spain, he said, at 
the moment; an’ we saw nae mair o’ him nor the heid, 
nor h’ard ever a soon’ mair o’ clankin’, nor girnin’, nor 
ony ither oonholy din. 


DONAL GRANT. 


319 


“An’ that’s the trowth, mak o’ ’t what ye like, my 
leddy an’ Maister Grant!” 

Mistress Brookes was silent, and for some time not a 
syllable was uttered by either listener. At last Donal 
spoke. 

“It is a strange story, Mistress Brookes,” he said, “and 
the stranger that it would show some of the inhabitants 
of the other world apparently as silly after a hundred and 
fifty years as when first they arrived there.” 

“I can say naething anent that, sir,” answered Mistress 
Brookes. “I’m no accoontable for ony inference ’at’s to 
be drawn frae my ower true tale; an* doobtless, sir, ye 
ken far better nor me; but whaur ye see sae mony folk 
draw oot the threid o’ a lang life, an’ never ae sensible 
thing, that they could help, done or said, what for should 
ye won’er gien noo an’ then ane i’ the ither warp shaw 
himsel’ siclike. Whan ye consider the heap o’ folk that 
dees, an’ hoo there maun be sae mony mair i’ the tither 
warl’ nor i’ this, I confess for my pairt I won’er mair ’at 
we’re left at peace at a’, an’ that they comena swarmin’ 
aboot ’s i’ the nicht, like black doos. Ye’ll maybe say 
they canna, an’ ye’ll maybe say they come; but sae lang 
as they plague me nae waur nor oor freen’ upo’ the ither 
side o’ the wa’, I canna say I care that mickle. But I 
think whiles hoo thae ghaists maun lauch at them that 
lauchs as gien there was nae sic ciaturs i’ the warl’. For 
my pairt I naither fear them nor seek til them. I’ll be 
ane wi’ them mysel’ afore lang — only I wad sair wuss an’ 
houp to gang in amo’ better behavet anes nor them ’at 
gangs aboot plaguin’ folk.” 

“You speak the best of sense, Mistress Brookes,” said 
Donal, “but I should like to understand why the poor 
hanged fellow should have such an objection to having 
his skull laid in the ground! Why had he such a fancy 
for his old bones? Could he be so closely associated with 
them that he could not get on without the plenty of fresh 
air they got him used to when they hung on the gallows? 
And why did it content him to have only his head above 
ground? It is bewildering! We couldn’t believe our 
bones rise again, even if Paul hadn’t as good as told us 
they don’t! Why should the dead haunt their bones as if 
to make sure of having their own again?” 

“But,” said Mrs. Brookes, “beggin’ yer pardon, sir, 


320 


TONAL GRANT. 


what ken ye as to what they think? Ye may ken better, 
but maybe they dinna; for haena ye jist allooed that sic 
conduc’ as I hae describit is no fit, whaever be guilty o’ 
the same, whether rowdy laddies i’ the streets, or orators 
ye canna see i’ the hoose? They may think they’ll want 
their banes by an’ by though ye ken better; an’ whatever 
you wise folk may think the noo, ye ken it’s no that lang 
sin’ a body, ay, the best o’ folk, thoucht the same; an’ 
there’s no a doobt they a’ did at the time that man was 
hangt. An’ ye maun min’ ’at i’ the hoose the heid o’ 
’im wudna waste as it wud i’ the yerd!” 

“But why bother about his head more than the rest of 
his bones?” 

“Weel, sir, I’m thinking a ghaist, ghaist though he be, 
canna surely be i’ twa places at anoe. He could never 
think to plague til ilk bane o’ finger an’ tae was gethert 
i’ the cellar! That wud be honpless! An’ thinkin’ ony- 
thing o’ his banes, he micht weel think maist o’ ’s heid, 
an’ keep an e’e upo’ that. Nae mony ghaists hae the 
chance o’ seein’ sae muckle o’ their banes as this ane, or 
sayin’ to themsel’s, ‘Yon’s mine, whaur it swings!’ Some 
ghaists hae a cat-like natur for places, an’ what for no for 
banes? Mony’s the story that hoosekeeper, honest wom- 
an, telled me: whan what had come was gane, it set her 
openin’ oot her pack! I could haud ye there a’ nicht 
tellin’ ye ane efter anither o’ them. But it’s time to 
gang to oor beds.” 

“It is our turn to tell you something,” said Lady Arc- 
tura; “only you must not mention it just yet; Mr. Grant 
has found the lost room !” 

For a moment Mrs. Brookes said nothing, but neither 
paled nor looked incredulous; her face was only fixed and 
still, as if she were finding explanation in the discovery. 

“I was aye o’ the min’ it was,” she said, “an’ mony’s 
the time I thoucht I wud luik for ’t to please mysel’! 
It’s sma’ won’er — the soon’s, an’ the raps, an’ siclike !” 

“You will not change your mind when you bear all,” 
said Arctura. “I asked you to give us our supper because 
I was afraid to go to bed.” 

“You shouldn’t have told her, sir!” 

“I’ve seen it with my own eyes!” 

“You’ve been into it, my lady? What — what-^— ” 

“It is a chapel— the old castle chapel — mentioned, I 


DONAL GRANT. 


321 


know, somewhere in the history of the place, though no 
one, I suppose, ever dreamed the missing room could be 
that! And in the chapel,” continued Arctura, hardly 
able to bring out the words, for a kind of cramping of the 
muscles of speech, “there wasa bed! and in the bed the 
crumbling dust of a woman! and on the altar what was 
hardly more than the dusty shadow of a baby!” 

“The Lord be aboot us!” cried the housekeeper, her 
well-seasoned composure giving way; “ye saw that wi’ 
yer ain e’en, my lady! Mr. Grant! hoo could ye lat her 
leddyship luik upo’ sic things!” 

“I am her ladyship’s servant,” answered Donah 

“That’s verra true! But eh, my bonny bairn, sic sichts 
is no for you !” 

“I ought to know what is in the house!” said Arctura, 
with a shudder. “But already I feel more comfortable 
that you know, too. Mr. Grant would like to have your 
advice as to what — You’ll come and see them, won’t 
you?” 

“When you please, my lady. To night?” 

“No, no! not to-night. Was that the knocking again? 
Some ghosts want their bodies to be buried, though your 
butler ” 

“I wouldna wonder!” responded Mistress Brookes 
thoughtfully. 

“Where shall we bury them?” asked Donal. 

“In Englan’,” said the housekeeper, “I used to hear a 
heap aboot consecrated ground; but to my min’ it was 
the bodies o’ God’s handiwark, no the bishop, that conse- 
crated the ground. Whar the Lord lays doon what he 
has done wi’, wad aye be a sacred place to me. I daur 
say Moses, whan he came upo’ ’t again i’ the desert, luikit 
upo’ the ground whaur stood the buss that had burned, 
as a sacred place though the fire was lang oot! Thinkna 
ye, Mr. Grant?” 

“I do,” answered Donal. “But I do not believe the 
Lord Jesus thought one spot on the face of the earth 
more holy than another: every dust of it was his Father’s, 
neither more nor less, existing only by the thought of 
that Father! and I think that is what we must come to. 
But where shall we bury them — where they lie, or in the 
garden?” 

“Some wud doobtless hae dist laid to dist i’ the kirk- 


322 


DONAL GRANT. 


yard; but I wudna willin’ly raise a clash i’ the country- 
side. Them that did it was yer ain forbeirs, my leddy; 
an’ sic things are weel forgotten. An, syne what wud 
the earl say? It micht upset him mairnorabit! I’ll 
consider o’ ’t.” 

Donal accompanied them to the door of the chamber 
which again they shared, and then betook himself to his 
own high nest. There more than once in what remained 
of the night, he woke, fancying he heard the ghost-music 
sounding its coronach over the dead below. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

A SOUL DISEASED. 

“Papa is very ill to-day, Simmons tells me,” said 
Davie, as Donal entered the schoolroom. “He says he 
has never seen him so ill. Oh, Mr. Grant, I hope he is 
not going to die!” 

“I hope not,” returned Donal — not very sure, he saw 
when he thought about it, what he meant, for if there 
was so little hope of his becoming a true man on this side 
of some awt'ul doom, why should he hope for his life here? 

“I wish you would talk to him as you do to me, Mr. 
Grant!” resumed Davie, who thought what had been 
good for himself must be good for everybody. 

Of late the boy had been more than usual with his 
father, and he may have dropped some word that turned 
his father’s thoughts toward Donal and his ways of think- 
ing; however weak the earl’s will, and however dull his 
conscience, his mind was far from being inactive. In the 
afternoon the butler brought a message that his lordship 
would be glad to see Mr. Grant when school was over. 

Donal found the earl very weak, but more like a live 
man, he thought, than he had yet seen him. He pointed 
to a seat, and began to talk in a way that considerably 
astonished the tutor. 

“Mr. Grant,” he began, with not a little formality, “1 
have known you long enough to believe I know you really. 
Now 1 find myself, partly from the peculiarity of my con- 
stitution, partly from the state of my health, partly from 
the fact that my views do not coincide with those of the 


DONAL GRANT. 


323 


Church of Scotland, and there is no Episcopal clergyman 
within reach of the castle — I find myself, I say, for these 
reasons, desirous of some conversation with you, more for 
the sake of identifying my own opinions than in the hope 
of receiving from you what it would be unreasonable to 
expect from one of your years.” 

Donal held his peace; the very power of speech seemed 
taken from him; he had no confidence in the man, and 
nothing so quenches speech as lack of faith. .But the earl 
had no idea of this distrust, never a doubt of his listener’s 
readiness to take any position he required him to take. 
Experience had taught him as little about Donal as about 
his own real self. 

“I have long been troubled,” continued his lordship 
after a momentary pause, “with a question of which one 
might think the world must by this time be weary — which 
yet has, and always will have, extraordinary fascination 
for minds of a certain sort — of which my own is one; it is 
( tbe question of the freedom of the will — how far is the 
will free? or how far can it be called free, consistently 
with the notion of a God over all?” 

He paused, and Donal sat silent — so long that his lord- 
ship opened the eyes which, the better to enjoy the process 
of sentence-making, he had kept shut, and half-turned 
his head toward him; he had begun to doubt whether he 
was really by his bedside, or but one of his many visions 
undistinguishable by him from realities. Beassured by the 
glance, he resumed. 

“I cannot, of course, expect from you such an exhaus- 
tive and formed opinion as from an older man who had 
made metaphysics his business, and acquainted himself 
with all that had been said upon the subject; at the same 
time you must have expended a considerable amount of 
thought on these matters!” 

He talked in a quiet, level manner, almost without in- 
flection, and with his eyes again closed— very much as if 
he were reading a book inside him. 

“I have had a good deal,” he went on, “to shake my 
belief in the common ideas on such points. Do you be- 
lieve there is such a thing as free will?” 

He ceased, awaiting the answer which Donal felt far 
from prepared to give him. 

“My lord,” he said at length, “what I believe, I do 


324 


DONAL OR AN 2. 


not feel capable, at a moment’s notice, of setting forth; 
neither do I think, however unavoidable such discussions 
may be in the forum of one’s own thoughts, that they are 
profitable between men. I think such questions, if they 
are to be treated at all between man and man, and not 
between God and man only, had better be discussed in 
print, where what is said is in some measure fixed, and 
can with a glance be considered afresh. But not so either 
do I think they can be discussed to any profit.” 

“What do you mean? Surely this question is of the 
first importance to humanity!” 

“I grant it, my lord, if by humanity you mean the 
human individual. But my meaning is, that there are 
many questions, and this one, that can be tested better 
than argued.” 

“You seem fond of paradox!” 

“I will speak as directly as I can; such questions are to 
be answered only by the moral nature, which first and 
almost only they concern; and the moral nature operates 
in action, not discussion.” 

“Do I not then,” said his lordship, the faintest shadow 
of indignation in his tone, “bring my moral nature to 
bear on a question which I consider from the ground of 
duty?” 

“No, my lord,” answered Donal, with decision; “you 
bring nothing but your intellectual nature to bear on it so; 
the moral nature, I repeat, operates only in action. To 
come to the point in hand: the sole way for a man to 
know he has freedom is to do something he ought to do, 
which he would rather not do. He may strive to acquaint 
himself with the facts concerning will, and spend himself 
imagining its mode of working, yet all the time not know 
whether he has any will.” 

“But how am I to put a force in operation, while I do 
not know whether I possess it or not?” 

“By putting it in operation— that alone; by being 
alive: by doing the next thing you ought to do, or ab- 
staining from the next thing you are tempted to, know- 
ing you ought not to do it. It sounds childish; and most 
people set action aside as what will do any time, and try 
first to settle questions which never can be settled but in 
just this divinely childish way. For not merely is it the 
only way in which a man can know whether he has a free 


DONAL GRANT. 


325 


will, but the man has in fact no will at all until it comes 
into being in such action. ” 

“Suppose he found he had no will, for he could not do 
what he wished?” 

“What he ought, I said, my lord.” 

“Well, what he ought,” yielded the earl almost angrily. 

“He could not find it prove that he had no faculty for 
generating a free will. He might indeed doubt it the 
more; but the positive only, not the negative, can be 
proved.” 

“Where would be the satisfaction if he could only prove 
the one thing and not the other.” 

“The truth alone can be proved, my lord; how should 
a lie be proved? The man that wanted to prove he had 
no freedom of will would find no satisfaction from his test 
— and the less the more honest he was; but the man anx- 
ious about the dignity of the nature given him would 
find every needful satisfaction in the progress of his obe- 
dience.” 

“How can there be free will where the first thing de- 
manded for its existence or knowledge of itself is obedi- 
ence?” 

“There is no free will save in resisting what one would 
like, and doing what the truth would have him do. It is 
true the man’s liking and the truth may coincide, but 
therein he will not learn his freedom, though in such co- 
incidence he will always thereafter find it, and in such 
coincidence alone, for freedom is harmony with the origi- 
nating law of one’s existence.” 

“That’s dreary doctrine.” 

“My lord, I have spent no little time and thought on 
the subject, and the result is some sort of practical clear- 
ness to myself; but, were it possible, I should not care to 
make it clear to another save by persuading him to arrive 
at the same conviction by the same path — that, namely, 
of doing the thing required of him.” 

“Required of him by what?” 

“By any one, anything, any thoaght, with which can 
go the word required by — anything that carries right in 
its demand. If a man does not do the thing which the 
very notion of a free will requires, what in earth, heaven, 
or hell, would be the use of his knowing all about the 
will? But it is impossible he should know anything.” 


326 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Yon are a bold preacher?!’’ said the earl. “Suppose 
now a man was unconscious of any ability to do the thing 
required of him?” 

“I should say there was the more need he should do 
the thing.” 

“That is nonsense.” 

“If it be nonsense, the nonsense lies in the supposition 
that a man can be conscious of not possessing a power; 
he can only be not conscious of possessing it, and that is a 
very different thing. How is a power to be known but 
by being a power, and how is it to be a power but in its 
own exercise of itself? There is more in man than he 
can at any given moment be conscious of; there is life, 
the power of the eternal behind his consciousness, which 
only in action can he make his own; of which, therefore, 
only in action, that is obedience, can he become conscious, 
for then only is it his.” 

“You are splitting a hair!” 

“If the only way to life lay through a hair, what must 
you do but split it? The fact, however, is, that he who 
takes the live sphere of truth for a flat intellectual disk, 
may well take the disk’s edge for a hair.” 

“Come, come! how does all this apply to me— a man 
who would really like to make up his mind about the 
thing, and is not at the moment aware of any very press- 
ing duty that he is neglecting to do?” 

“Is your lordship not aware of some not very pressing 
duty that you are neglecting to do? Some duties need 
but to be acknowledged by the smallest amount of action, 
to become paramount in their demands upon us.” 

“That is the worst of it!” murmured the earl. “I re- 
fuse, I avoid such acknowledgment! Who knows whither 
it might carry me, or what it might not go on to demand 
of me!” 

He spoke like one unaware that he spoke. 

“Yes, my lord,” said Donal, “that is how most men 
treat the greatest things! The devil blinds us that he 
may guide us!” 

“The devil — bah!” cried his lordship, glad to turn at 
right angles from the path of the conversation; “you 
don’t surely believe in that legendary personage?” 

“He who does what the devil would have him do is the 
man who believes in him, not he who does not care 


DONAL GRANT. 


327 


whether he is or not, so long as he avoids doing his works. 
If there be such a one, his last thought must be to per- 
suade men of his existence! He is a subject I do not care 
to discuss; he is not very interesting to me. But if your 
lordship now would but overcome the habit of depending 
on medicine, you would soon find out you had a free will. ,, 

His lordship scowled like a thunder-cloud. 

“I am certain, my lord,” added Donal, “that the least 
question asked by the will itself will bring an answer; a 
thousand asked by the intellect will bring nothing.” 

“I did not send for you to act the part of father con- 
fessor, Mr. Grant,” said his lordship, in a tone which 
rather perplexed Donal; “but as you have taken upon 
you the office, I may as well allow you to keep it; the 
matter to which you refer, that of my medical treatment 
of myself, is precisely what has brought me into my pres- 
ent difficulty. It would be too long a story to tell you 
how, like poor Coleridge, I was first decoyed, then enticed 
from one stage to another; the desire to escape from pain 
is a natural instinct; and that, and the necessity also for 
escaping my past self, especially in its relations to certain 
others, have brought me by degrees into far too great a 
dependence on the use of drugs. And now that, from 
certain symptoms, I have ground to fear a change of some 
kind not so far off — I do not of course mean to-morrow, 
or next year, but somewhere nearer than it was this time, 
I won’t say last year, but say ten years ago — why, then, 
one begins to think about things one has been too ready 
to forget. I suppose, however, if the will be a natural 
possession of the human being, and if a man should, 
through N actions on the tissue of his brain, have ceased to 
be conscious of any will, it must return to him the mo- 
ment he is free from the body, that is from the dilapidated 
brain !” 

“My lord, I would not have you count too much upon 
that. We know very little about these things; but what 
if the brain give the opportunity for the action which is 
to result in freedom? What if there should, without the 
brain, be no means of working our liberty? What if we 
are here like birds in a cage, with wings, able to fly, but 
not flying about the cage; and what if, when we are dead, 
we shall indeed be out of the cage, but without wings, 
having never made use of such as we had while we had 


328 


BONAL GRANT. 


them? Think for a moment what we should be without 
the senses!” 

“We shall be able at least to see and hear, else where 
were the use of believing in another world?” 

“I suspect, my lord, the other world does not need our 
believing in it to make a fact of it. But if a man were 
never to teach his soul to see, if he were obstinately to 
close his eyes upon this world, and look at nothing all the 
time he was in it, I should be very doubtful whether the 
mere fact of going a little more dead would make him see. 
The soul never having learned to see, its sense of seeing, 
correspondent to and higher than that of the body, never 
having been developed, how should it expand and empower 
itself by mere deliverance from the one best schoolmaster 
to whom it would give no heed? The senses are, I sus- 
pect, only the husks under which are ripening the deeper, 
keener, better senses belonging to the next stage of our 
life; and so, my lord, I cannot think that, if the will has 
not been developed through the means and occasions given 
it, the mere passing into another condition will set it free. 
For freedom is the unclosing of the idea which lies at our 
roof, and is the vital power of our existence. The rose is 
the freedom of the rose tree. I should think, having lost 
his brain, and got nothing instead, a man would find him- 
self a mere center of unanswerable questions.” 

“You go too far for me,” said his lordship, looking a 
little uncomfortable, “but I think it is time to try and 
break myself a little of the habit — or almost time. By 
degrees one’might, you know— eh?” 

“I have little faith in doing things by degrees, my lord 
— except such indeed as by their very nature cannot be 
done at once. It is true a bad habit can only be contracted 
by degrees; and I will not say, because I do not know, 
whether any one has ever cured himself of one by degrees; 
but it cannot be the best way. What is bad ought to be 
got rid of at once.” 

“Ah, but, you don’t know that might cost you your 

“What of that, my lord? Life, the life you mean, is 
not the first thing.” 

“Not the first thing! Why, the Bible says, ‘All that a 
man hath will he give for his life!’ ” 

“That is in the Bible; but whether the Bible says it, is 
another thing.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


329 


“I do not understand silly distinctions.” 

“Why, my lord, who said that?” 

“What does it matter who said it?” 

“Much, always; everything, sometimes.” 

“Who said it, then?” 

“The devil.” 

“The devil he did! And who ought to know better, I 
should like to ask?” 

“Every man ought to know better. And besides, it is 
not what a man will or will not do, but what a man ought 
or ought not to do!” 

“Ah, there you have me, I suppose! But there are 

some things so d d difficult, that a man must be very 

sure of his danger before he can bring himself to do 
them !” 

“That may be, my lord; in the present case, however, 
you must be aware that the danger is not to the bodily 
health alone; these drugs undermine the moral nature as 
well!” 

“I know it; I cannot be counted guilty of many things; 
they were done under the influence of hellish concoctions. 
It was not I, but these things working in me — on my 
brain, making me see things in a false light! This will 
be taken into account when I come to be judged — if there 
be such a thing as a day of judgment.” 

“One thing I am sure of,” said Donal, “that your lord- 
ship will have fair play. At first, not quite knowing 
what you were about, you may not have been much to 
blame; but afterward, when you knew that you were put- 
ting yourself in danger of doing you did not know what, 
you were as much to blame as if you made a Frankentein- 
demon and turned him loose on the earth, knowing your- 
self utterly unable to control him.” 

“And is not that what the God you believe in does 
every day?” 

“My lord, the God I believe in has not lost His control 
over either of us.” 

“Then let Him set the thing right! Why should we 
draw His plow?” 

“He will set it right, my lord — but probably in a way 
your lordship will not like. He is compelled to do terrible 
things sometimes.” 

“Compelled! — what should compel Him?” 


330 


ZONAL GRANT. 


“The love that is in Him, the love that He is. He can- 
not let us have our own way to the ruin of everything in 
us He cares for!” 

Then the spirit awoke in Donal — or came upon him — • 
and he spoke: 

“My lord,” he said, “if you would ever again be able to 
thank God; if there be one in the other world to whom 
you would go; if you would make up for any wrong you 
have ever done; if you would ever feel in your soul once 
more the innocence of a child; if you care to call God 
your Father; if you would fall asleep in peace and wake to 
a new life, I conjure you to resist the devil, to give up 
the evil habit that is dragging you lower and lower every 
hour. It will be very hard, I know! Anything I can do, 
watching with you night and day, giving myself to help 
you, I am ready for. I will do all that lies in me to de- 
liver you from the weariness and sickness of the endeavor. 
I will give my life to strengthen yours, and count it well 
spent and myself honored; I shall then have lived a life 
worth living! Resolve, my lord — in God’s name, resolve 
at once to be free. Then you shall know you have a free 
will, for your will will have made itself free by doing 
the will of God against all disinclination of your own. It 
will be a glorious victory, and will set you high on the 
hill whose peak is the throne of God.” 

“I will begin to-morrow,” said the earl feebly, and with 
a strange look in his eyes. “But now you must leave me. 

I need solitude to strengthen my resolve. Come to me 
again to-morrow. I am weary, and must rest awhile. 
Send Simmons.” 

Donal was nowise misled by the easy, postponed con- 
sent, but he could not prolong the interview. He rose 
and went. In the act of shutting the door behind him, 
something, he did not know what, made him turn his 
head, the earl was leaning over the little table by his bed- 
side, and pouring something from a bottle into a glass. 
Donal stood transfixed. The earl turned and saw him, 
cast on him a look of almost demoniacal hate, put the 
glass to his lips and drank off its contents, then threw 
himself back on his pillows. Donal shut the door — not 
so softly as he intended, for he was agitated; a loud curse 
at the noise came after him. He went down the stair not 
only with a sense of failure, but with an exhaustion such 
as he had never before felt. 


DONAL GRANT. 


331 


There are men of natures so inactive that they cannot 
even enjoy the sight of activity around them; men with 
schemes and desires are in their presence intrusive. Their 
existence is a sleepy lake, which would not be troubled 
even with the wind of far-off labor. Such Lord Morven 
was not by nature; up to manhood he had led even a 
stormy life. But when his passions began to yield, his 
self-indulgence began to take the form of laziness; and it 
was not many years before he lay with never a struggle in 
the chains of the evil power which had now reduced him 
to moral poltroonery. The tyranny of this last wicked- 
ness grew worse after the death of his wife. The one ob- 
ject of his life, if life it could be called, was only and ever 
to make it a life of his own, not the life which God had 
meant it to be, and had made possible to him. On first 
acquaintance with the moral phenomenon, it had seemed 
to Donal an inhuman and strangely exceptional one; but 
reflecting, he came presently to see that it was only a more 
pronounced form of the universal human disease — a dis- 
ease so deep-seated that he who has it worst least knows 
or can believe that he has any disease, attributing all his 
discomfort to the condition of things outside him; where- 
as his refusal to accept them as they are is one most prom- 
inent symptom of the disease. Whether by stimulants or 
narcotics, whether by company or ambition, whether by 
grasping or study, whether by self-indulgence, by art, by 
books, by religion, by love, by benevolence, we endeavor 
after another life than that which God means for us — a life 
of truth, namely, of obedience, humidity and self-forget- 
fulness, we walk equally in a vain show. For God alone is, 
and without him we are not. This is not the mere clang of 
a tinkling metaphysical cymbal; he that endeavors to live 
apart from God must at length find— not merely that he 
has been walking in a vain show, but that he has been 
himself but the phantom of a dream. But for the life of 
the living God, making him be, and keeping him being, 
he must fade even out of the limbo of vanities! 

He more and more seldom went out of the house, more 
and more seldom left his apartment. At times he would 
read a great deal, then for days would not open a book, 
but seem absorbed in meditation — a meditation which had 
nothing in it worthy of the name. In his communications 
with Donal, he did not seem in the least aware that he 


332 


TONAL GRANT. 


had made him the holder of a secret by which he could 
frustrate his plans for his family. These plans he clung 
to, partly from paternity, partly from contempt for soci- 
ety, and partly in the fancy of repairing the wrong he 
had done his children’s mother. The morally diseased 
will atone for wrong by fresh wrong — in its turn to de- 
mand like reparation! He would do anything now to 
secure his sons in the position of which in law he had de- 
prived them by the wrong he had done the woman 
whom all had believed his wife. Through the marriage of 
the eldest with the heiress, he would make him the head of 
the house in power as in dignity, and this was now almost 
the only tie that bound him to the reality of things. He 
cared little enough about Forgue, but his conscience was 
haunted with his cruelties to the youth’s mother. These 
were often such as I dare not put on record; they came 
all of the pride of self-love and self-worship — as evil de- 
mons as ever raged in the fiercest fire of Moloch. In the 
madness with which they possessed him, he had inflicted 
upon her not only sorest humiliations, but bodily tortures: 
he would see, he said, what she would bear for his sake! 
In the horrible presentiments of his drug-procured dreams 
they returned upon him in terrible forms of righteous re- 
taliation. And now, though to himself he was constantly 
denying a life beyond, the conviction had begun to visit 
and overwhelm him that he must one day meet her again: 
fain then would he be armed with something which for 
her sake he had done for her children ! One of the horri- 
ble laws of the false existence he led was that, for the 
deadening of the mind to any evil, there was no necessity 
it should be done and done again; it had but to be 
presented in the form of a thing done, or a thing 
going to be done, to seem a thing reasonable and 
doable. In his being, a world of false appearances 
had taken the place of reality; a creation of his own 
had displaced the creation of the essential Life, by whose 
power alone he himself falsely created; and in this world 
he was the dupe of his own home-born phantoms. Out 
of this conspiracy of marsh and mirage, what vile things 
might not issue! Over such a chaos the devil has power 
all but creative. He cannot in truth create, but he can 
with the degenerate created work moral horrors too hide- 
ous to be analogized by any of the horrors of the unper- 


LOYAL GRANT. 


333 


fected animal world. Such are being constantly produced 
in human society; many of them die in the darkness in 
which they are generated; now and then one issues, blast- 
ing the public day with its hideous glare. Because they 
are seldom seen, many deny they exist, or need be spoken 
of if they do. But to terrify a man at the possibilities of 
his neglected nature, is to do something toward the re- 
demption of that nature. 

School hours were over, but Davie was seated where he 
had/ left him, still working. At sight of him Donal, feel- 
ing as if he had just come from the presence of the damned, 
almost burst into tears. A moment more and Arctura 
entered; it was as if the roof of hell gave way, and the 
blue sky of the eternal came pouring in heavenly deluge 
through the ruined vault. 

“I have been to call upon Sophia,” she said. 

“I am glad to hear it,” answered Donal; any news 
from an outer world of yet salvable humanity was welcome 
as summer to a land of ice. 

“Yes,” she said; “I am able to go and see her now, 
because I am no longer afraid of her — partly, I think, be- 
cause I no longer care what she thinks of me. Her power 
over me is gone.” 

“And will never return,” said Donal, “while you keep 
close to the Master. With him you need no human being 
to set you right, and will allow no human being to set 
you wrong; you will need neither friend nor minister nor 
church, though all will help you. I am very glad, for 
something seems to tell me I shall not be long here.” 

Arctura dropped on a chair — pale as rosy before. 

“Has anything fresh happened?” she asked, in a low 
voice that did not sound like hers. “Surely you will not 
leave me while — I thought — I thought — What is it?” 

“It is only a feeling I have,” he answered. “I believe 
I am out of spirits.” 

“I never saw you so before!” said Arctura. “I hope 
you are not going to be ill.” 

“Oh, no; it is not that! I will tell yon some day, but 
I cannot now. All is in God’s hands!” 

She looked anxiously at him, but did not ask him any 
question more. She proposed they should take a turn in 
the park, and his gloom wore gradually off. 


384 


DONAL GRANT. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

DUST TO DUST. 

The next night, as if by a common understanding, for 
it was without word spoken, the three met again in the 
housekeeper’s room, where she had supper waiting. Of 
business nothing was said until that was over. Mistress 
Brookes told them two or three of the stones of which she 
had so many, and Donal recounted one or two of those 
that floated about his country-side. 

“I’ve been thinkin’,” said Mistress Brookes at length, 
“seein’ it’s a bonny starry nicht, we couldna do better 
than lift an’ lay doon this verra nicht. The hoose is 
asleep.” 

“What do you say to that place in the park where was 
once a mausoleum?” said Donal. 

“It’s the verra place! — an’ the sooner the better — dinna 
ye think, my lady?” 

Arctura with a look referred the question to Donal. 

“Surely,” he answered. “But will there not be some 
preparations to make?” 

“There’s no need o’ mony!” returned the housekeeper. 
“I’ll get a fine auld sheet, an’ intil ’t we’ll put the re- 
mains, an’ row them up, an’ carry them to their hame. 
I’ll go an’ get it, my lady. But wouldna ’t be better for 
you and me, sir, to get a’ that dune by oorsel’s? My 
leddy could j’in us whau we cam up.” 

“She wouldn’t like to be left here alone. There is 
nothing to be called fearsome!” 

“Nothing at all,” said Arctura. 

“The forces of nature,” said Donal, “are constantly at 
work to destroy the dreadful, and restore the wholesome. 
It is but a few handfuls of clean dust.” 

The housekeeper went to one of her presses and brought 
out a sheet. Donal put a plaid round Lady Arctura. 
Thev went up to her room, and so down to the chapel. 
Half-way down the narrow descent Mistress Brookes mur- 
mured, “Eh, sirs!” and said no more. 

Each carried a light, and the two could see the chapel 
better. A stately little place it was: when the windows 
were unmasked, it would be beautiful! 

They stood for some moments by the side of the bed, 


DONAL GRANT. 


335 


regarding it in silence. Seldom sure had bed borne one 
who slept so long! — one who, never waking, might lie 
there still! When they spoke it was in whispers. 

“How are we to manage it, Mistress Brookes?” said 
Donah 

“Lay the sheet handy alang the side of the bed, Maister 
Grant, an* I s’ lay in the dist, han’fu’ by han’fu’. I hae 
that respec’ for the deid, I hae no difficlety aboot han’lin’ 
onything belongin’ to them.” 

“Gien it hadna been that he tuik it again,” said Donal, 
“the Lord’s ain body wad hae come to this.” 

As he spoke he laid the sheet on the bed, and began to 
lay in it the dry dust and air-wasted bones, handling them 
as reverently as if the spirit had but just departed. Mis- 
tress Brookes would have prevented Arctura, but she in- 
sisted on having her share in the burying of her own: 
who they were God knew, but they should be hers any- 
how, and one day she would know! For to fancy we go 
into the other world a set of spiritual moles burrowing in 
the dark of a new and unknown existence, is worthy only 
of such as have a lifeless Law to their sire. We shall 
enter it as children with a history, as children going home 
to a long line of living ancestors, to develop closest rela- 
tions with them. She would yet talk, live face to face 
with those whose dust she was now lifting in her two 
hands to restore it to its dust. Then they carried the 
sheet to the altar, and thence swept into it every particle, 
back to its mother dust. That done, Donal knotted the 
sheet together, and they began to look around them. 

Desirous of discovering where the main entrance to the 
chapel had been, Donal spied under the windows a second 
door, and opened it with difficulty. It disclosed a passage 
below the stair, three steps lower than the floor of the 
chapel, parallel with the wall, and turning at right angles 
under the gallery. Here he saw signs of an ooliterated 
door in the outer wall, but could examine no further for 
the present. 

In the meantime his companions had made another 
sort of discovery: near the foot of the bed was a little 
table, on which were two drinking vessels, apparently of 
pewter, and a moldering pack of cards! Card-playing 
and the hidden room did hold some relation with each 
other! The cards and the devil were real! 


336 


DONAL GRANT. 


Donal took np the sheet — a light burden, and Arctura 
led the way. Arrived at her room, they went softly across 
to the door opening on Donal’s stair — not without fear of 
the earl, whom indeed they might meet anywhere — and 
by that descending, reached the open air, and took their 
way down the terraces and through the park to the place 
of burial. 

It was a frosty night, with the waning sickle of a moon 
low in the heaven, and many brilliant stars above it. 
Followed by faint ethereal shadows, they passed over the 
grass, through the ghostly luminous dusk — of funereal 
processions one of the strangest that ever sought a tomb. 

The ruin was a hollow, surrounded by trees. Donal re- 
moved a number of fallen stones and dug a grave. They low- 
ered into it the knotted sheet, threw in the earth again, 
heaped the stones above, and left the dust with its dust. 
Then silent they went hack, straight along the green, moon- 
regarded rather than moon-lit grass: if any one had seen 
them through the pale, starry night, he would surely have 
taken them for a procession of the dead themselves! 

No dream of death sought Arctura that night, but in 
the morning she woke suddenly from one of disembodied 
delight. 


CHAPTER LX. 

A LESSON ABOUT DEATH. 

Whatever Lady Arctura might decide concerning the 
restoration of the chapel to the light of day, Donal thought 
it would not be amiss to find, without troubling her, what 
he could of its relation to the rest of the house; and it 
favored his wish that Arctura was prevailed upon by the 
housekeeper to remain in bed the next day. Her strong 
will, good courage, and trusting heart, had made severe 
demands upon an organization as delicate as responsive. 
It was now Saturday: he resolved to go alone in the after- 
noon to explore — and first of all would try the door beside 
the little gallery. 

As soon as he was free, he got the tools he judged nec- 
essary, and went down. 

The door was of strong sound oak, with ornate iron 
hinges right across it. He was on the better side for 


DONAL GRANT. 


337 


opening it, that is, the inside, but though the ends of the 
hinges were exposed, the door was so well within the frame 
that it was useless to think of heaving them off the bear- 
ing-pins. The huge lock and its bolt were likewise before 
him, but the key was in the lock from the other side, so 
that it could not be picked; while the nails that fastened 
it to the door were probably riveted through a plate. But 
there was the socket into which the bolt shot! that was 
merely an iron staple! he might either force it out with 
a lever, or file it through! Having removed the roughest 
of the rust with which it was caked, and so reduced its 
thickness considerably, he set himself to the task of filing 
it through, first at the top, then at the bottom. It was a 
slow but a sure process, and would make no great noise. 

Although it was broad daylight outside, so like mid- 
night was it here and the season that belongs to the dead, 
that he was haunted with the idea of a presence behind 
him. But not once did he turn his head to see, for he 
knew that if he yielded to the inclination, it would but 
return the stronger. Old experience had taught him that 
the way to meet the horrors of the fancy is to refuse them 
a single hair’s-breadth of obedience. And as he worked 
the conviction grew that the only protection against the 
terrors of alien presence is the consciousness of the home 
presence of the eternal; if a man felt that presence, how 
could he fear any other? But for those who are not one 
with the source of being, every manifestation of that be- 
ing in a life other than their own, must be more or less a 
terror to them; it is alien, antipathous, other — it may be 
unappeaseable, implacable. The time must even come 
when to such their own being will be a horror of repug- 
nant consciousness; for God, not self, is ours — his being, 
not our own, is our home; he is our kind. 

The work was slow — the impression on the hard iron of 
the worn file so weak that he was often on the point of 
giving up the attempt. Fatigue at length began to in- 
vade him, and therewith the sense of his situation grew 
more keen; great weariness overcomes terror; the begin- 
nings of weariness enhance it. Every now and then he 
would stop, thinking he heard the cry of a child, only to 
recognize it as the noise of his file. He resolved at last 
to stop for the night, and after tea go to the town to buy 


338 


DONAL GRANT. 


The next day was Sunday, and in the afternoon Donal 
and Davie were walking in the old avenue together. They 
had been to church, and had heard a dull sermon on the 
most stirring fact next to the resurrection of the Lord 
himself — His raising of Lazarus. The whole aspect of the 
thing as presented by the preaching man, was so dull and 
unreal that not a word on the subject had passed between 
them on the way home. 

“Mr. Grant, how could anybody make a dead man live 
again ?” said Davie suddenly. 

“I don’t know, Davie,” answered Donal. “if I could 
know how, I should probably be able to do it myself.” 

“It is very hard to believe.” 

“Yes, very hard — that is, if you do not know anything 
about the person said to have done it, to account for his 
being able to do it though another could not. But just 
think of this; if one had never seen or heard about death, 
it would be as hard, perhaps harder, to believe that any- 
thing could bring about that change. The one seems to 
us easy to understand, because we are familiar with it; if 
we had seen the other take place a few times, we should 
see in it nothing too strange, nothing indeed but what 
was to be expected in certain circumstances.” 

“But that is not enough to prove it ever did take place.” 

“Assuredly not. It cannot even make it look in the 
least probable.” 

“Tell me, please, anything that would make it look 
probable.” 

“I will not answer your question directly, but I will 
answer it. Listen, Davie. 

“In all ages men have longed to see God — some men in 
a grand way. At last, according to the story of the Gos- 
pel, the time came when it was fit that the Father of men 
should show himself to them in his Son, the one perfect 
man, who was His very image. So Jesus came to them. 
But many would not believe He was the Son of God, for 
they knew God so little that they did not see how like He 
was to His Father. Others, who were more like God 
themselves, and so knew God better, did think Him the 
Son of God, though they were not pleased that He did not 
make more show. His object was, not to rule over them, 
but to make them know, and trust, and obey His Father, 
who was everything to Him. Now when any one died, 


DONAL GRANT. 


339 


his friends were so miserable over Him that they hardly 
thought about God, and took no comfort from Him. 
They said the dead man would rise again at the last day, 
but that was so far off, the dead was gone to such a dis- 
tance, that they did not care for that. Jesus wanted to 
make them know and feel that the dead were alive all the 
time, and could not be far away, seeing they were all with 
God in whom we live; that they had not lost them though 
they could not see them, for they were quite within His 
reach — as much so as ever; that they were just as safe 
with, and as well looked after by His Father and their Fa- 
ther, as they had ever been in all their lives. It was no 
doubt a dreadful-looking thing to have them put in a 
hole, and waste away to dust, but they were not therefore 
gone out — they were only gone in! To teach them all 
this He did not say much, but just called one or two of 
them back for awhile. Of course Lazarus was going to 
die again, but can you think his two sisters either loved 
him less, or wept as much over him the next time he 
died?” 

“No; it would have been foolish.” 

“Well, if you think about it, you will see that no one 
who believes that story, and weeps as they did the first 
time, can escape reproof. Where Jesus called Lazarus 
from, there are his friends, and there are they waiting 
for him! Now, I ask you, Davie, was it worth while for 
Jesus to do this for us? Is not the great misery of our 
life, that those dear to us die? Was it, I say, a thing 
worth doing, to let us see that they are alive with God all 
the time, and can be produced any moment He pleases?” 

“Surely it was, sir! It ought to take away all the 
misery!” 

“Then it was a natural thing to do; and it is a reason- 
able thing to think that it was done. It was natural that 
God should want to let His children see Him; and natural 
He should let them know that He still saw and cared for 
those they had lost sight of. The whole thing seems to 
me reasonable; I can believe it. It implies indeed a 
world of things of which we know nothing; but that is 
for, not against it, seeing such a world we need; and if 
any one insists on believing nothing but what he had seen 
something like, I leave him to his misery and the mercy 
of God.” 


340 


DONAL GHAXT. 


If the world had been so made that men could easily 
believe in the Maker ol it, it would not have been a world 
worth any man’s living in, neither would the God that 
made such a world, and so revealed himself to such peo- 
ple, be worth believing in. God alone knows what life is 
enough for us to live — what life is worth His and our 
while; we may be sure he is laboring to make it ours. 
He would have it as full, as lovely, as grand, as the spar- 
ing of nothing, not even his own Son, can render it. If 
we would only let him have his own way with us! If we 
do not trust Him, will not work with Him, are always 
thwarting His endeavors to make us alive, then we must 
be miserable; there is no help for it. As to death, we 
know next to nothing about it. “Do we not?” say tho 
faithless. “Do we not know the darkness, the emptiness, 
the tears, the sinkings of heart, the desolation?” Yes, you 
know those; but those are your things, not death’s. About 
death you know nothing. God has told us only that the 
dead are aliv6 to Him, and that one day they will be alive 
again to us. The world beyond the gates of death is, I 
suspect, a far more homelike place to those that enter it, 
than this world is to us.” 

“I don’t like death,” said Davie, alter a silence. 

“I don’t want you to like what you call death, for that 
is not the thing itself — it is only your fancy about it. 
You need not think about it at all. The way to get ready 
for it is to live, that is, to do what you have to do.” 

“But I do not want to get ready for it. I don’t want 
to go to it; and to prepare for it is like going straight 
into it!” 

“You have to go to it whether you prepare for it or 
not. You cannot help going to it. But it must be like 
this world, seeing the only way to prepare for it is to do 
the thing God gives us to do.” 

“Aren’t you afraid of death, Mr. Grant?” 

, “No, I am not. Why should I fear the best thing that, 
in its time, can come to me? Neither will you be afraid 
when it comes. It is not the dreadful thing it looks.” 

“Why should it look dreadful if it is not dreadful?” 

“That is a very proper question. It looks dreadful, 
and must look dreadful, to every one who cannot see in 
it that which alone makes life not dreadful. If you saw 
a great dark cloak coming along the road as if it were 


DONAL GRANT. 


341 


round somebody, but nobody inside it, you would be 
frightened — would you not?” 

“Indeed I should. It would be awful.” 

“It would. But if you spied inside the cloak, and 
making it come toward you, the most beautiful, loving 
face you ever saw — of a man carrying in his arms a little 
child — and saw the child clinging to him, and looking in 
his face with a blessed smile, would you be frightened at 
the black cloak?” 

“No; that would be silly.” 

“You have your answer! The thing that makes death 
look so fearful is that we do not see inside it. Those 
who see only the black cloak, and think it is moving 
along of itself, may well be frightened; but those who 
see the face inside the clock, would be fools indeed to be 
frightened! Before Jesus came, people lived in great 
misery about death; but after He rose again, those who 
believed in Him always talked of dying as falling asleep; 
and I dare say the story of Lazarus, though it was not 
such a great thing after the rising of the Lord himself, 
had a large share in enabling them to think that way 
about it.” 

When they went home, Davie, running to Lady Arc- 
tura’s room, recounted to her as well as he could the con- 
versation he had just had with Mr. Grant. 

“Oh, Arkie!” he said, “to hear him talk, you would 
think Death hadn’t a leg to stand upon!” 

Arctura smiled; but it was a smile through a cloud of 
unshed tears. Lovely as death might be, she would like 
to get the good of this world before going to the next! 
As if God would deny us any good! At one time she had 
been willing to go, she thought, but she was not now! 
The world had of late grown very beautiful to her! 


CHAPTER LXI. 

THE BUREAU. 

On the Monday night Donal again went down into the 
hidden parts of the castle. Arctura had come to the 
schoolroom, but seemed ill able for her work, and he did 
not tell her what he was doing further. 


342 


DONAL GRANT. 


They were rather the ghosts of fears than fears them- 
selves that had assailed him, and this time they hardly 
came near him as he wrought. With his new file he made 
better work than before, and soon finished cutting through 
the top of the staple. Trying it then with a poker as a 
lever, he broke the bottom part across; so there was noth- 
ing to hold the bolt, and with a creaking noise of rusty 
hinges the door slowly opened to his steady pull. Noth- 
ing appeared but a wall of plank! He gave it a push; it 
yielded: another door, close-fitting, and without any fas- 
tening, flew open, revealing a small closet or press, and 
on the opposite side of it a third door. This he could 
not at once open. It was secured, however, with a com- 
mon lock, which cost him scarcely any trouble. It opened 
on a little room, of about nine feet by seven. He went 
in. It contained nothing but an old-fashioned secretary 
or bureau, and a seat like a low music-stool. 

“It may have been a vestry for the priest!” thought 
Donal; “but it must have been used later than the chapel, 
for this desk is not older than the one at The Mains, 
which Mistress Jean said was made for her grandmother!*’ 

Then how did it get into the place? There was no 
other door! Above the bureau was a small window, or 
what seemed a window doubtful with dirt; but door there 
was not! It was not too large to enter by the oak door, 
but it could not have got to it along any of the passages 
he had come through! It followed that there must, and 
that not so very long ago, have been another entrance to 
the place in which he stood! 

He turned to look at the way he had himself come; it 
was through a common press of painted deal, filling the 
end of the little room, that narrowed to about five feet. 
When the door in the back of it was shut, it looked merely 
a part of the back of the press. 

He turned again to the bureau, with a strange feeling 
at his heart. The cover was down, and on it lay some 
sheets of paper, discolored with dust and age. A pen lay 
with them, and beside was an ink-bottle of the common- 
est type, the ink in powder and flakes. He took up one 
of the sheets. It had a great stain on it. The bottle 
must have been overturned! But was it ink? No; it 
stood too thick on the paper. With a grewsome shiver 
Donal wetted his finger and tried the surface of it: a little 


DONAL GRANT. 


343 


came off, a tinge of suspicious brown. There was writing 
on the paper! What was it:' He held the faded lines 
close to the candle. They were not difficult to decipher. 
He sat down on the stool, and read thus — his reading 
broken by the stain: there was no date: 

“My husband for such I will — blot — are in the sight of 
God — blot — men why are you so cruel what — blot — de- 
serve these terrors — blot — in thought have I — blot — hard 
upon me to think of another.” 

Here the writing came below the blot, and went on 
unbroken. 

“My little one is gone and I am left lonely, oh, so 
lonely. I cannot but think that if you had loved me as 
you once did I should yet be clasping my little one to my 
bosom, and you would have a daughter to comfort you 
after I am gone. I feel sure I cannot long survive this — 
ah, there my hand has burst out bleeding again, but do 
not think I mind it, I know it was only an accident, you 
never meant to do it, though you teased me by refusing 
to say so — besides, it is nothing. You might draw every 
drop of blood from my body and I would not care, if only 
you would not make my heart bleed so. Oh, it is gone all 
over my paper, and you will think I have done it to let 
yon see how it bleeds — 'but I cannot write it all over again, 
it is too great a labor and too painful to write, so you 
must see it just as it is. I dare not think where my baby 
is, for if I should be doomed never to see her because of 
the love I have borne to you, and consented to be as you 
wished; if I am cast out from God because I loved you 
more than him, I shall never see you again — for to be 
where I could see you would never be punishment enough 
for my sins.” 

Here the writing stopped: the bleeding of the hand 
had probably brought it to a close. The letter had never 
been folded, but lying there, had lain there. He looked 
if he could find a date; there was none. He held the 
sheet up to the light, and saw a paper mark; while close 
by lay another sheet with merely a date— in the same 
hand, as if the writer had been about to commence an- 
other in lieu of the letter spoiled. 

“Strange !” thought Donal within himself; “an old 
withered grief looks almost as pitiful as an old withered 
joy! But who is to say either is withered? Those who 


344 


DONAL OMANI. 


look upon death as an evil, yet regard it as the healer of 
sorrows! Is it such? No one can tell how long a grief 
may last unwithered ! Surely till the life heals it! He 
is a coward who would be cured of his sorrow by mere 
lapse of time, by the mere forgetting of a brain that grows 
musty with age. It is God alone who can heal — the God 
of the dead and of the living; and the dead must find 
him, or be miserable forevermore!” 

He had not a doubt that the letter he had read was in 
the writing of the mother of the present earl’s children. 

What was he to do? He had thought he was looking 
into matters much older — things over which the permis- 
sion of Lady Arctura extended; and in truth what he had 
discovered, or seen corroborated, was a thing she had a 
right to know! but whether he ought to tell her at once 
he did not yet see. He took up his candle, and with a 
feeling of helpless dismay withdrew to his chamber. But 
when he reached the door of it, yielding to a sudden im- 
pulse, he turned away, and went further up the stair, and 
out upon the bartizan. 

It was a frosty night, and the stars were brilliant. He 
looked up and said : 

“Oh, Saviour of men, Thy house is vaulted with light; 
Thy secret places are secret from excess of light; in Thee 
is no darkness at all ; Thou hast no terrible crypts and 
built-up places; Thy light is the terror of those who love 
the darkness! Fill my heart with Thy light; let me never 
hunger or thirst after anything but Thy will — that I may 
walk in the light, and light not darkness may go forth 
from me.” 

As he turned to go in, came a faint chord from the 
aeolian harp. 

“It sings, brooding over the very nest of evil deeds!” 
he thought. “The light eternal, with keen arrows of 
radiant victory, will at last rout from the souls of his 
creatures the demons that haunt them! 

“But if there be creatures of God that have turned to 
demons, may not human souls themselves turn to demons? 
Would they then be victorious over God, too strong for 
him to overcome — beyond the reach of repentance? 

“How would they live? By their own power? Then 
were they Gods! But they did not make themselves, and 
could not live of themselves. If not, then they must live 


UONAL QUANT. 


345 


by God’s power. How then should they be beyond his 
reach ? 

“If the demons can never be brought back, then the 
life of God, the all-pure, goes out to keep alive, in and 
for evil, that which is essentially bad ; for that which is 
irredeemable is essentially bad.” 

Thus reasoned Donal with himself, and his reasoning, 
instead of troubling his faith, caused him to cling the 
more to the only One, the sole hope and savior of the 
hearts of His men and women, without whom the whole 
universe were but a charnel house, in which the ghosts of 
the dead went about crying, not over the life that was 
gone from them, but its sorrows. 

He stood and gazed obt over the cold sea. And as he 
gazed, a shivering surge of doubt, a chill wave of nega- 
tion, came rolling over him. He knew that in a moment 
he would strike out with the energy of a strong swimmer, 
and rise to the top of it; but now it was tumbling him 
about at its evil will. He stood and gazed — with a dull 
sense that he was waiting for his will. Suddenly came 
the consciousness that he and his will were one; that he 
had not to wait for his will, but had to wake — to will, 
that is, and do, and so be. And therewith he said to 
himself: 

“It is neither time, nor eternity, nor human consola- 
tion, nor everlasting sleep, nor the satisfied judgment, 
nor attained ambition, even in love itself, that is the cure 
for things; it is the heart, the will, the being of the fa- 
ther. While that remains, the irremediable, the irre- 
deemable cannot be. If there arose a grief in the heart 
of one of His creatures not otherwise to be destroyed, He 
would take it into Himself, there consume it in His own 
creative fire — Himself bearing the grief, carrying the sor- 
row. Christ died — and would die again rather than leave 
one heart-ache in the realms of His love — that is, of His 
creation. ‘Blessed are they who have not seen and yet 
have believed!’ ” 

Over his head the sky was full of shining worlds — man- 
sions in the Father’s house, built or building. 

“We are not at the end of things,” he thought, “but 
in the beginnings and on the threshold of creation! The 
Father is as young as when first the stars of the morning 
sung — the Ancient of Days who can never grow old! He 


346 


DONAL GRANT. 


who has ever filled the dull unbelieving nations with food 
and gladness, has a splendor of delight for the souls that 
believe, ever as by their obedience they become capable 
of receiving it.” 


CHATPER LXII. 

THE CRYPT. 

“When are you going down again to the chapel, Mr. 
Grant?” said Lady Arctura; she was better now, and 
able to work. 

“I was down last night, and want to go again this even- 
ing by myself — if you don’t mind, my lady,” he answered. 
“I am sure it will be bettor for you not to go down till 
you are ready to give your orders to have everything 
cleared away for the light and air to enter. The damp 
and closeness of the place are too much for you.” 

“I think it was rather the want of sleep that made me 
ill,” she answered; “but you can do just as you please.” 

“I thank you for your confidence, my lady,” returned 
Donal. “I do not think you will repent it.” 

“I know I shall not.” 

Having some things to do first, it was late before Donal 
went down — intent on learning the former main entrance, 
and verifying the position of the chapel in the castle. 

He betook himself to the end of the passage under the 
little gallery, and there examined the signs he had ob- 
served; those must be the outer ends of two of the steps 
of the great staircase! they came through, resting on the 
wall. That end of the chapel, then, adjoined the main 
stair. Evidently, too, a door had been built up in the 
process of constructing the stair. The chapel then had 
not been entered from that level since the building of the 
stair. Originally there had, most likely, been an outside 
stair to this door, in an open court. 

After a little more examination, partial of necessity, 
from lack of light, he was on his way out, and already 
near the top of the mural stair, thinking of the fresh ob- 
servation he would take outside in the morning, when 
behind, overtaking him from the regions he had left, 
came a blast of air, and blew out his candle. He shivered 


DONAL GRANT. 


347 


— not with the cold of it, though it did breathe of under- 
ground damps and doubtful growths, but from a feeling 
of its having been sent after him to make him go down 
again — for did it not indicate some opening to the outer 
air? He relighted his candle and descended, carefully 
guarding it with one hand. The cold sigh seemed to lin- 
ger about him as he went — grewsome as from a closed 
depth, the secret bosom of the castle, into which the light 
never entered. But, wherever it came from last, however 
earthly and fearful, it came first from the open regions of 
life, and had but passed through a gloom that life itself 
must pass! Could it have been a draught down the pipe 
of the music-chords? No, for they would have loosed 
some light-winged messenger w T ith it! He must search 
till he found its entrance below! 

He crossed the little gallery, descended, and went again 
into the chapel; it lay as still as the tomb -which it was no 
more. He seemed to miss the presence of the dead, and 
feel the place deserted. All round its walls, as far as he 
could reach or see, he searched carefully, but could per- 
ceive no sign of possible entrance for the messenger blast. 
It came again — plainly through the open door under the 
windows. He went again into the passage outside the 
wall, and the moment he turned into it, the draught 
seemed to come from beneath, blowing upward. He 
stooped to examine; his candle was again extinguished. 
Once more he relighted it. Searching then along the 
floor and the foot of the walls, he presently found, in the 
wall of the chapel itself, close to the ground, a narrow 
horizontal opening: it must pass under the floor of the 
chapel! All he saw was a mere slit, but the opening 
might be larger, and partially covered by the flooring- 
slab, which went all the length of the slit! He would try 
to raise it! That would want a crow-bar! but having got 
so far, he would not rest till he knew more! It must be 
very late and the domestics all in bed; but what hour it 
was he could not tell, for he had left his watch in his 
room. It might be midnight and he burrowed like a 
mole about the roots of the old house, or like an evil 
thing in the heart of a man! No matter! he would fol- 
low up his search — after what, he did not know. 

He crept up, and out of the castle by his own stair, so 
to the tool-house. It was locked. But lying near was a 


348 


DONAL GRANT \ 


half-worn shovel: that might do! he would have a try 
with it! Like one in a dream of ancient ruins, creeping 
through moldy and low-browed places, he went down once 
more into the entrails of the house. 

Inserting the sharp edge of the worn shovel in the gap 
between the stone and that next it, he raised it more 
readily than he had hoped, and saw below it a small win- 
dow, whose sill sloped steeply inward). How deep the 
place might be, and whether it would be possible to get 
out of it again, he must discover before entering. He 
took a letter from his pocket, lighted it, and threw it in. 
It revealed a descent of about seven feet, into what looked 
like a cellar. He blew his candle out, put it in his pocket, 
got into the window, slid down the slope, and reached his 
new level with ease. He then lighted his candle, and 
looked about him. 

His eye first fell on a large flat stone in the floor, like a 
grave-stone, but without any ornament or inscription. 
It was a roughly vaulted place, unpaved, its floor of damp, 
hard-beaten earth. In the wall to the right of that 
through -which he had entered, was another opening, low 
down, like the crown of an arch the rest of which was 
beneath the floor. As near as he could judge, it was right 
under the built-up door in the passage above. He crept 
through it, and found himself under the spiral of the 
great stair, in the small space at the bottom of its well. 
On the floor lay a dust-pan and a house-maid’s brush — 
and there was the tiny door at which they were shoved in, 
after their morning’s use upon the stair! It was open — 
inward; he crept through it: he was in the great hall of 
the house — and there was one of its windows wide open ! 
Afraid of being by any chance discovered, he put out his 
light, and proceeded up the stair in the dark. 

He had gone but a few steps when he heard the sound 
of descending feet. He stopped and listened : they turned 
into the half-way room. When he reached it, he heard 
sounds which showed that the earl was in the closet be- 
hind it. Things rushed together in his mind. He hur- 
ried up to Lady Arctura’s room, thence descended, for 
the third time that night — but no further than the oak 
door, passed through it, entered the little chamber, and 
hastening to the further end of it, laid his ear against the 
wall. Plainly enough he heard the sounds he had ex- 


DONAL GRANT. 


349 


pectecl — those o£ the dream-walking rather than sleep- 
walking earl, moaning, and calling in a low voice of 
entreaty after some one whose name did not grow audible 
to the listener. 

“Ah!” thought Donal, “who would find it hard to be- 
lieve in roaming and haunting ghosts, that had once seen 
this poor man roaming his own house, and haunting that 
chamber! How easily I could punish him now, with a 
lightning blast of terror!” 

It was but a thought; it did not amount to a tempta- 
tion; Donal knew he had no right. Vengeance belongs 
to the Lord, for he alone knows how to use it. 

I do not believe that mere punishment exists anywhere 
in the economy of the lijghest; I think mere punishment 
a human idea, not a divine one. But the consuming fire 
is more terrible than any punishment invented by riotous 
and cruel imagination. Punishment indeed it is— not 
mere punishment; a power of God for his creature. Love 
is God’s being; love is his creative energy; they are one: 
God’s punishments are for the casting out of the sin that 
uncreates, for the recreating of the things his love made 
and sin has unmade. 

He heard the lean hands of the earl go slowly sweeping, 
at the ends of his long arms, over the wall; he had seen 
the thing, else he could hardly have interpreted the 
sounds; and he heard him muttering on and on, though 
much too low for his words to be distinguishable. Had 
they been, Donal by this time was so convinced that he 
had to do with an evil and dangerous man, that he would 
have had little scruple in listening. It is only righteous- 
ness that has a right to secrecy, and does not want it; 
evil has no right to secrecy, alone intensely desires it, 
and rages at being foiled of it; for when its deeds come 
to the light, even evil has righteousness enough left to be 
ashamed of them. But he could remain no longer; his 
very soul felt sick within him. He turned hastily away 
to leave the place. But carrying his light too much in 
front, and forgetting the stool, he came against it and 
knocked it over, not without noise. A loud cry from the 
other side of the wall revealed the dismay he had caused. 
It was followed by a stillness, and then a moaning. 

He made haste to find Simmons, and send him to his 
master. He heard nothing afterward of the affair. 


350 


DONAL GRANT. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

THE CLOSET. 

Tender over Lady Arctura, Donal would ask a ques- 
tion or two of the housekeeper before disclosing what fur- 
ther he had found. He sought her room, therefore, while 
Arctura and Davie, much together now, were reading in 
the library. 

“Did you ever hear anything about that little room on 
the stair, Mistress Brookes?” he asked. 

“I canna say,” she answered — but thoughtfully. “Bide 
a wee: auld auntie did mention something anoe aboot — 
bide a wee — I hae a wullin’ memory — maybe I’ll min’ 
upo’ ’t i’ the noo! It was something about biggin’ up 
an’ takin’ doon — something he was to do, an’ something 
he never did! I’m sure I canna tell! But gie me time, 
an’ I’ll min’ upo’ ’t! Ance is yea wi’ me — only I maun 
hae time!” 

Donal waited, and said not a word. 

“I min’ this much,” she said at length, “that they 
used to be thegither i’ that room, I min’ too that there 
was something aboot buildin’ up ane wa’, an’ pu’in’ doon 
anither. It’s cornin’— it’s cornin’ back to me!” 

She paused again awhile, and then said: 

“All I can recollec’, Mr. Grant, is this: that efter her 
death, he biggit up something no far frae that room! — . 
what was’t noo!— an’ there was something aboot makin’ 
o’ the room bigger! Hoo that couid be by buildin’ up, 
I canna think! Yet I feel sure that was what he did !” 

“Would you mind coming to the place?” said Donal. 
“To see it might help you to remember.” 

“I wull, sir. Come ye here aboot half efter ten, an’ 
we s’ gang thegither.” 

As soon as the house was quiet, they went. But Mis- 
tress Brookes could recall nothing, and Donal gazed about 
him to no purpose. 

“What’s that?” he said at last, pointing to the wall on 
the other side of which was the little chamber. 

Two arches, in chalk, as it seemed, had attracted his 
gaze. Light surely was about to draw nigh through the 
darkness! Chaos surely was settling a little toward order! 


DONAL QUANT. 


351 


The one arch was drawn opposite the hidden chamber; 
the other against the earl’s closet, as it had come to be 
called in the house — most , of the domestics thinking he 
there said his prayers. It looked as if there had been an 
intention of piercing the wall with such arches, to throw 
the two small rooms on the other side as recesses into the 
larger. But if that had been the intent, what could the 
building of a wall, vaguely recollected by Mistress Brookes, 
have been for? That a wall had been built he did not 
doubt, for he believed he knew the wall, but why? 

“What’s that?” said Donal. 

“What?” returned Mrs. Brookes. 

“Those two arches.” 

The housekeeper looked at them thoughtfully for a few 
moments. 

“I canna help fancyin’,” she said slowly, “yes, I’m 
sure that’s the verra thing my aunt told me aboot! That’s 
the twa places whaur he was going to tak the wall doon, 
to mak the room lairger. But I’m sure she said some- 
thing aboot buildin’a wall as weel!” 

“Look here,”said Donal; “I will measure the distance 
from the door to the other side of this first arch. Now 
come into the closet behind. Look here! This same 
measurement takes us right up to the end of the place. 
So you see if we were to open the other arch, it would be 
into something behind this wall.” 

“Then this may be the verra wa’ he biggit?” 

“I don’t doubt it; but what could he have had it built 
for, if he was going to open the other wall? I must think 
it all over! It was after his wife’s death, you say?” 

“Yes, I believe so.” 

“One might have thought he would not care about en- 
larging the room after she was gone.” 

“But, sir, he wasna sic a pattern o’ a guidman!” said 
the housekeeper. “An’ what for mak this room less?” 

“May it not have been for the sake of shutting out, or 
hiding something?” suggested Donal. 

“I do remember a certain thing! Curious! But what 
then as to the openin’o ’ ’t efter?” 

“He has never done it!” said Donal significantly. 
“The thing takes shape to me in this way: — that he 
wanted to build something out of sight— to annihilate it; 

but in order to prevent speculation, be professed tbe in- 


352 


DONAL GRANT. 


tention of casting the one room into the other; then built 
the wall across, on the pretense that it was necessary for 
support when the other was broken through — or perhaps 
that two recesses with arches would look better; hut when 
he had got the wall built, he put off opening the arches 
on one pretext or another, till the thing should be forgot- 
ten altogether — as you see it is already, almost entirely. 
I have been at the back of that wall, and heard the earl 
moaning and crying on this side of it!” 

“God bless me!” cried the good woman. “I’m no 
easy scaret, but that’s fearfu’ to think o’!” 

“You would not care to come there with me?” 

“No the nicht, sir. Come to my room again, an’ I s’ 
mak ye a cup o’ coffee, an’ tell ye the story — it’s a’ come 
back to me noo — the thing ’at made my aunt tell me aboot 
the buildin’ o’ this wa’. ’Deed, sir, I liae hardly a doobt 
the thing was jist as ye say!” 

They went to her room; there was Lady Arctura sitting 
by the fire. 

“Mv lady!” cried the housekeeper. “I tboucht I left 
ye soon’ asleep!” 

“So I was, I dare say,” answered Arctura; “but I woke 
again, and finding you had not come up, I thought I 
would go down to you. I was certain you and Mr. Grant 
would be somewhere together. Have you been discover- 
ing anything more?” 

Mrs. Brookes gave Donal a look; he left her to tell as 
much or as little as she pleased. 

“We hae been prowlin’ aboot the hoose, but no doon 
von’er, my lady. I think you an’ me wad do weel to lea’ 
that to Mr. Grant!” 

“When your ladyship is quite ready to have everything 
set to rights,” said Donal, “and to have a resurrection of 
the chapel, then I shall be glad to go with you again. 
But I would rather not even talk more about it just at 
present.” 

“As you please, Mr. Grant,” replied Lady Arctura. 
“We will say nothing more till I have made up my mind. 
I don’t want to vex my uncle, and I find the question 
rather a difficult one — and the more difficult that he is 
worse than usual. Will you not come to bed now, Mis- 
tress Brookes?” 


DONAL GRANT. 


353 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

THE GARLAND ROOM. 

All through the terrible time, the sense of help and 
comfort and protection in the presence of the young tutor 
went on growing in the mind of Arctura. It was nothing 
to her — >what could it be? — that he was the son of a very 
humble pair; that ho had been a shepherd, and a cow- 
herd, and a farm laborer — less than nothing. She never 
thought of the facts of his life except sympathetically, 
seeking to enter into the feelings of his memorial child- 
hood and youth; she would never have known anything 
of those facts but for their lovely intimacies of all sorts 
with nature — nature divine, human, animal, cosmical. 
By sharing with her his emotional history, Donal had 
made its facts precious to her; through them he had 
gathered his best — by home and by prayer, by mother and 
by father, by sheep and mountains and wind and sky. 
And now he was to her a tower of strength, a refuge, a 
strong city, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. 
She trusted him the more that he never invited her trust 
— never put himself before her; for always before her he 
set Life, the perfect heart-origin of her and his yet unper- 
fected humanity, teaching her to hunger and thirst after 
being righteous like God, with the assurance of being 
tilled. She had once trusted in Miss Carmichael, not 
with her higher being, only with her judgment, and both 
her judgment and her friend had misled her. Donal had 
taught her that obedience, not to man but to God, was 
the only guide to holy liberty, and so had helped her to 
break the bonds of those traditions which, in the shape of 
authoritative utterances of this or that church, lay bur- 
dens grievous to be borne upon the souls of men. For 
Christ against all the churches, seemed to her to express 
DonaPs mission. An air of peace, an atmosphere of sum- 
mer twilight after the going down of the sun, seemed to 
her to precede him and announce his approach with a 
radiation felt as rest. She questioned herself nowise 
about him. Falling in love was a thing unsuggested to 
her; if she was in what is called danger, it was of a better 
thing. 

The next day she did not appear: Mistress Brookes had 


354 


DONAL GRANT. 


persuaded her to keep her bed again for a day or two. 
There was nothiug really the matter with her, she said 
herself, but she was so tired she did not care to lift her 
head from the pillow. She had slept well, and was trou- 
bled about nothing. She sent to beg Mr. Grant to let 
Davie go and read to her, and to give him something to 
read, good for him as well as for her. 

Donal did not see Davie again till the next morning. 

“Oh, Mr. Grant, ” he said, “you never saw anything so 
pretty as Arkie is in bed! She is so white, and so sweet! 
and she speaks with a voice so gentle and low! She was 
so kind to me for going to read to her! I never saw any- 
body like her! She looks as if she had just said her 
prayers, and God had told her she should have everything 
she wanted. ” 

Donal wondered a little, but hoped more. Surely she 
must be finding rest in the consciousness of God! But 
why was she so white? Was she going to die? A pang 
shot to his heart; if she were to go from the castle, it 
would be hard to stay in it, even for the sake of Davie! 
Donal, no more than Arctura, imagined himself fallen in 
love; he had loved once, and his heart had not yet done 
aching— chough more with the memory than the presence 
of pain! He was utterly satisfied with what the Father 
of the children had decreed, and would never love again! 
But he did not seek to hide from himself that the friend- 
ship of Lady Arctura, and the help she sought and he 
gave, had added a fresh and strong interest to his life. 
At the first dawn of power in his heart, when he began to 
make songs in the fields and on the hills, he had felt that 
to brighten with true light the clouded lives of despondent 
brothers and sisters was the one thing worthiest living 
for; it was what the Lord came into the world for; neither 
had his trouble made him forget it — for more than one 
week or so; while the pain was yet gnawing grievously, 
he woke to it again with self-accusation — almost self- 
contempt: To have helped this lovely creature, whose 
life had seemed lapped in an ever closer-clasping shroud 
of perplexity, was a thing to be glad of — not to the day of 
his death, but to the never-ending end of his life; was an 
honor conferred upon him by the Father, to last for ever- 
more. For he had helped to open a human door for the 
Lord to enter! ahe within heard him knock, but, trying, 


DONAL GRANT. 


355 


was unable to open! To be God’s helper with our fellows 
is the one high calling; the presence of God in the house 
the one high condition. 

At the end of a week Arctura was better, and able to 
see Donal. She had had Mistress Brookes’ bed moved 
into the same room with her own, and had made the 
dressing-room into a sitting-room. It was sunny and 
pleasant — the very place, Donal thought, he would have 
chosen for her. The bedroom too, which the housekeeper 
had persuaded her to take when she left her own, was one 
of the largest in the castle — the Garland-room — old-fash- 
ioned, of course, but as cheerful as stateliness would per- 
mit, with gorgeous hangings and great pictures — far from 
homely, but with sun in it half the day. Donal congrat- 
ulated her on the change. She had been prevented from 
making one sooner, she said, by the dread of owing any 
comfort to circumstance; it might deceive her as to her 
real condition! 

“It could not deceive God, though,” answered Donal, 
“who fills with righteousness those who hunger after it. 
It is pride to refuse anything that might help us to know 
him; and of all things his sunlit world speaks of the Fa- 
ther of lights! If that makes us happier, it makes us fitter 
to understand him, and he can easily send what cloud 
may be needful to temper it. We must not make our 
own world, inflict our own punishments, or order our own 
instruction; we must simply obey the voice in our hearts, 
and take lovingly what he sends.” 

The next day she told him she had had a beautiful 
night, full of the loveliest dreams. One of them was, 
that a child came out of a grassy hillock by the wayside, 
called her mamma, and said she was much obliged to her 
for taking her olf the cold stone, and making her a butter- 
fly; and with that the child spread out gorgeous and great 
wings and soared up to a white cloud, and there sat laugh- 
ing merrily to her. 

Every afternoon Davie read to her, and thence Donal 
gained a duty — that of finding suitable pabulum for the 
two. He was not widely read in light literature, and it 
made necessary not a little exploration in the region of it. 


356 


DONAL GRANT. 


CHAPTER LXV. 

THE WALL. 

Oh the day after the last triad in the housekeeper’s 
parlor, as Donal sat in the schoolroom with Davie — about 
noon it was — he became aware that for some time he had 
been hearing laborious blows apparently at a great dis- 
tance; now that he attended, they seemed to be in the 
castle itself, deadened by mass, not distance. With a fear 
gradually becoming more definite, he sat listening for a 
few moments. 

“Davie,” he said, “run and see what is going on.” 

The boy came rushing back in great excitement. 

“Oh, Mr. Grant, what do you think!” he cried. “I 
do believe my father is after the lost room! They are 
breaking down a wall!” 

“Where?” asked Donal, half-starting from his seat. 

“In the little room behind the half-way room — on the 
stair, you know!” 

Donal was silent: what might not be the consequences! 

“You may go and see them at work, Davie,” he said. 
“ We shall have no more lessons this morning. Was your 
papa with them?” 

“No, sir — at least, I did not see him. Simmons told 
me he sent for the masons this morning, and set them to 
take the wall down. Oh, thank you, Mr. Grant! It is 
such fun! I do wonder what is behind it! It may be a 
place you know quite well, or a place you never saw 
before!” 

Davie ran off, and Donal instantly sped to a corner 
where he had hidden some tools, thence to Lady Arctura’s 
deserted room, and so to the oak door. He remembered 
seeing another staple in the same post, a little lower 
down; if he could get that out, he would drive it in be- 
side the remains of the other, so as to hold the bolt of the 
lock; if the earl knew the way in, as dountless he did, he 
must not learn that another had found it — not yet at 
least! As he went down, every blow of the masons 
pounding at the wall seemed in his very ears. 

He peeped through the press-door; they had not yet 
got through the wall; no light was visible! He made 
haste to restore things — only a stool and a few papers — to 


DONAL GRANT. 


357 


their exact positions when first he entered. Close to him 
on the other side of the partition, shaking the place, the 
hnge blows were falling like those of a ram on the wall of 
a besieged city, of which he was the whole garrison. He 
stepped into the press and drew the door after him; with 
his last glance behind him he saw, in the faint gleam of 
light that came with it, a stone fall: he must make haste: 
the demolition would go on much faster now; but before 
they had the opening large enough to pass, he would have 
done what he wanted! With a strong piece of iron for a 
lever, he drew the staple from the post, then drove it in 
astride of the bolt, careful to time his blows to those of 
the masons. That done, he ran down to the chapel, 
gathered what dust he could sweep up from behind the 
altar and laid it on its top, restored on the bed, with its 
own dust, a little of the outline of what had been there, 
dropped the slab to its place in the floor of the passage, 
closed the door of the chapel with some difficulty because 
of its broken hinge, and ascended. 

The sounds of battering had ceased, and as he passed 
the oak door he laid his ear to it: some one was in tho 
place! the lid of the breau shut with a loud bang, and he 
heard a lock turned. The wall could not be half down 
yet; the earl must have entered the moment he could get 
through! 

I)onal hastened up, and out of the dreadful place, put 
the slab in the opening, secured it with a strut against 
the opposite side of the recess, and closed the shutters 
and drew the curtains of the room; if the earl came up 
the stair in the wall, found the stone immovable, and saw 
no light through any chink about its edges, he would not 
suspect it had been displaced! 

He went then to Lady Arctura. 

“I have a great deal to tell you,” he said, “but at this 
moment I cannot; I am afraid of the earl finding me with 
you !” 

“Why should you mind that?” said Arctura. 

“Because I think he is suspicious about the lost room. 
He has had a wall taken down this morning. Please do 
not let him see you know anything about it. Davie thinks 
he is set on finding the lost room: I think he knew all 
about it long ago. You can ask him what he has been 
doing; you must have heard the masons!” 


358 


DONAL GRANT. 


“I hope I shall not stumble into anything like a story, 
for if I do I must out with everything !” 

In the afternoon Davie was full of the curious little 
place his father had discovered behind the wall; but, 
if that was the lost room, he said, it was not at all worth 
making such a fuss about; it was nothing but a big closet, 
with an old desk-kind of thing in it! 

In the afternoon, also, the earl went to see his niece. 
It was the first time they met after his rude behavior on 
her proposal to search for the lost room. 

“What were you doing this morning, uncle?” she said. 
“There was such a thumping and banging somewhere in 
the castle! Davie said you were determined, he thought, 
to find the lost room.”^ 

“Nothing of the kind, my love,” answered the earl. 
“I do hope they will not spoil the stair carrying the stones 
and mortar down !” 

“What was it then, uncle?” 

“Simply this, my dear: my late wife, your aunt, and I, 
had a plan for taking that closet behind my room on the 
stair into the room itself. In preparation, I had a wall 
built across the middle of the closet so as to divide it and 
make two recesses of it, and act also as a buttress to the 
weakened wall. Then your aunt died, and I hadn’t the 
heart to open the recesses or do anything more in the 
matter. So one-half of the closet was cut off and remained 
inaccessible. But there had been left in it an old bureau, 
containing papers of some consequence, for it was heavy, 
and intended to occupy the same position after the arches 
were opened. Now, as it happens, I want one of those 
papers, so the wall has had to come down again.” 

“But, uncle, what a pity!” said Arctura. “Why did 
you not open the arches? The recesses would have been 
so pretty in that room.” 

“I am sorry I did not think of asking yon what you 
would like done about it, my child! The fact is I never 
thought of your taking any interest in the matter; I had 
naturally lost all mine. You will please to observe, how- 
ever, I have only restored what I had myself disarranged 
— not meddled with anything belonging to the castle!” 

“But now you have the masons here, why not go on, 
and make a little search for the lost room?” said Arctura, 
venturing once more. 


DONAL GRANT. 


359 


“We might pull down the castle and be none the wiser! 
Bah! the building up of half the closet may have given 
rise to the whole story !” 

“Surely, uncle, the legend is older than that!” 

“It may be; you cannot be sure. Once a going, it 
would immediately cry back to a remote age. Prove that 
any one ever spoke of it before the building of that foolish 
wall.” 

“Surely some remember it long before that!” 

“Nothing is more treacherous than a memory confronted 
with a general belief,” said the earl, and took his leave. 

The next morning Arctura went to see the alteration. 
She opened the door of the little room; it was twice its 
former size, and two bureaus were standing against the 
wall! She peeped into the cupboard at the end of it, but 
saw nothing there. 

That same morning she made up her mind that she 
would go no further at present in regard to the chapel: 
it would be to break with her uncle! 

In the evening she acquainted Donal with her resolve, 
and he could not say she was wrong. There was no ne- 
cessity for opposing her uncle — there might soon come 
one! He told her how he had entered the closet from 
behind, and of the noise he had made the night before, 
which had perhaps led to the opening of the place; but 
he did not tell her of what he had found on the bureau. 
The time might come when he must do so, but now he 
dared not render her relations with her uncle yet more 
uncomfortable; neither was it likely such a woman would 
consent to marry such a man as her cousin had shown 
himself; when that danger appeared, it would be time to 
interpose; for the mere succession to an empty title, he 
was not sure that he was bound to speak. The branch 
which could produce such scions might well be itself a 
false graft on the true stem of the family! — if not, what 
was the family worth? He must at all events be sure it 
was his business before he moved in the matter! 


360 


DONAL GRANT. 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

PROGRESS AND CHANGE. 

Things went on very quietly for a time. Arctura grew 
better, resumed her studies, and made excellent progress. 
She would have worked harder, but Donal would not let 
her. lie hated forcing — even with the good will of the 
plant itself. He believed in a holy, unhasting growth. 
God’s ways want God’s time. 

Long after, people would sometimes say to him: 

“That is very well in the abstract; but in these days of 
hurry a young fellow would that way be left ages behind.” 

“With God,” would Donal say. 

“Tut, tut! the thing would never work!” 

“For your ends,” Donal would answer, “it certainly 
would never work; but your ends are not those of the 
universe!” 

“I do not pretend they are; but they are the success of 
the boy.” 

“That is one of the ends of the universe; and your re- 
ward will be to thwart it for a season. I decline to make 
one in a conspiracy against the designs of our Creator. I 
would fain die loyal!” 

He was of course laughed at, and not a little despised, 
as an extravagant enthusiast. But those who laughed 
found it hard to say for what he was enthusiastic. It 
seemed hardly for education, when he would even do what 
he could sometimes to keep a pupil back! He did not 
care to make the best of any one! The truth was, Donal’s 
best was so many miles ahead of theirs, that it was below 
their horizon altogether. If there be any relation between 
time and the human mind, every forcing of human pro- 
cess, whether in spirit or intellect, is hurtful, a retarding 
of God’s plan. 

Lady Arctura’s old troubles were gradually fading into 
the limbo of vanities. At times, however, mostly when 
unwell, they would come in upon her like a flood; what 
if, after all, God were the self-loving being theology pre- 
sented— a being from whom no loving human heart could 
but recoil with a holy dislike! what if it was because of a 
nature specially evil that she could not accept God in 
whom the priests and elders of her people believed! But 


DONAL QUANT. 


361 


again and again, in the midst of profoundest wretchedness 
from such doubt, and a sudden flush of the world’s beauty 
— that beauty which Jesus has told us to consider and the 
modern pharisee to avoid, broken like gentlest, mightiest 
sunrise through the hellish fog, and she had felt a power 
upon her as from the heart of a very God — a God such 
as she would give her life to believe in — one before whom 
she would cast herself in speechless adoration — not of his 
greatness — of that she felt little, but of his loving kind- 
ness, the gentleness that was making her great. Then 
would she care utterly for God and his Christ, nothing 
for what men said about them; the Lord never meant his 
lambs to be under the tyranny of any, least of all the 
tyranny of his own most imperfect church! its work is to 
teach; where it cannot teach, it must not rule! Then 
would God appear to her not only true, but real — the 
heart of the human, to which she could cling, and so rest. 
The corruption of all religion comes of leaving the human, 
and God as the causing Human, for something imagined 
holier. Men who do not see the loveliness of the truth, 
search till they find a lie they can call lovely. What but 
a human reality could the heart of man ever love! what 
else are we offered in Jesus but the absolutely human? 
That Jesus has two natures is of the most mischievous fic- 
tions of theology. The divine and the human are not 
two. 

Suddenly, after an absence of months, reappeared Lord 
Forgae — cheerful, manly, on the best terms with his fa- 
ther, and plainly willing to be on still better with his 
cousin! He had left the place a mooning youth; he came 
back a man of the world — easy in carriage, courteous in 
manners, serene in temper, abounding in what seemed 
the results of observation, attentive but not too attentive, 
jolly with Davie, polite to all. Donal could hardly re- 
ceive the evidence of his senses: he would have wondered 
more had he known every factor in the change. All 
about him seemed to say it should not be his fault if the 
follies of his youth remained unforgotten; and his airy 
carriage sat well upon him. None the less Donal felt 
there was no restoration of the charm which had at first 
attracted him; that was utterly vanished. He felt cer- 
tain he had been going down hill, and was now ; instead 
of negatively, consciously and positively untrue. 


362 


DONAL GRANT. 


With gradations undefined, but not unmarked of Donal, 
as if the man found himself under influences of which the 
youth had been unaware, he began to show himself not 
indifferent to the attractions of bis cousin. He expressed 
concern that her health was not what it had been; sought 
her in her room when she did not appear: professed an 
interest in knowing what books she was reading, and what 
were her studies with Donal ; behaved like a good brother- 
cousin, who would not be sorry to be something more. 

And now the earl, to the astonishment of the household, 
began to appear at table; and, apparently as a consequence 
of this, Donal was requested rather than invited to take 
his meals with the family — not altogether to his satisfac- 
tion, seeing he could not only read while he ate alone, 
but could get through more quickly, and have the time 
thus saved for things of greater consequence. His pres- 
ence made it easier for Lord Forgue to act his part, and 
the manners he brought to the front left little to be de- 
sired. He bowed to the judgment of Arctura, and seemed 
to welcome that of his father, to whom he was now as re- 
spectful as moralist could desire. Yet he sometimes faced 
a card he did not mean to show; who that is not absolutely 
true can escape the mishap! There was condescension in 
his politeness to Donal, and this, had there been nothing 
else, would have been enough to revolt Arctura. But in 
truth he impressed her altogether as a man of outsides; she 
felt that she did not see the man he was, but the nearest 
approach he could make to the man he would be taken for. 
He was gracious, dignified, responsive, kind, amusing, 
accurate, ready— everything but true. He would make 
of his outer man all but what it was meant for — a revela- 
tion of the inner. It was that notwithstanding. He was 
a man dressed in a man, and his dress was a revelation of 
much that he was, while he intended it only to show 
much that he was not. No man can help unveiling him- 
self, however long he may escape even his own detection. 
There is nothing covered that shall not be revealed. 
Things were meant to come out, and be read, and under- 
stood, in the face of the universe. The soul of every 
man is as a secret book, whose content is yet written on 
its cover for the reading of the wise. How differently is 
it read by the fool, whose very understanding is a misun- 
derstanding! He takes a man for a God when on the 


DONAL GRANT. 


363 


point of being eaten op of worms; he buys for thirty 
pieces of silver him whom the sepulcher cannot hold ! 
Well for those in the world of revelation, who give their 
sins no quarter in this! 

Forgue had been in Edinburgh a part of the time, in 
England another part. He had many things to tell of 
the people he had seen, and the sports he had shared in. 
He had developed and enlarged a vein of gentlemanly 
satire, which he kept supplied by the observations and 
analysis of the peculiarities, generally weaknesses, of 
others. These, as a matter of course, he judged merely 
hv the poor standard of society; questioned concerning 
any upon the larger human scale, he could give no ac- 
count of them. To Donal’s eyes the man was a shallow 
pool whose surface brightness concealed the muddy 
bottom. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

THE BREAKFAST ROOM. 

Two years before, Lady Arctura had been in the habit of 
riding a good deal, but after an accident to a favorite horse 
for which she blamed herself, she had scarcely ridden at 
all. It was quite as much, however, from the influence of 
Miss Carmichael upon her spirits that she had forsaken 
the exercise. Partly because her uncle was neither much 
respected nor much liked, she had visited very little; and 
after mental trouble assailed her, growing under the false 
prescriptions of the soul doctor she had called in, she 
withdrew more and more, avoiding even company she 
would have enjoyed, and which would before now have 
led her to resume it. 

For a time she persisted in refusing to ride with Forgue. 

In vain he offered his horse, assuring her that Davie’s 
pony was quite able to carry him; she had no inclination 
to ride, she said. But at last one day, lest she should be 
guilty of unkindness, she consented, and so enjoyed the 
ride — felt, indeed, so much the better for it — that she did 
not thereafter so positively as before decline to allow her 
cousin to look out for a horse fit to carry her; and Forgue, 
taking her consent for granted, succeeded, with the help 
Of the factor, in finding for her a beautiful creature, just 


304 


DONAL GRANT. 


of the sort to please her. Almost at sight of him she 
agreed to his purchase. 

This put Forgue in great spirits, and much content- 
ment with himself. He did not doubt that, gaining thus 
opportunity so excellent, he would quickly succeed in 
withdrawing her from the absurd influence which, to his 
dismay, he discovered his enemy had in his absence gained 
over her. He ought not to have been such a fool, he said 
to himself, as to leave the poor child to the temptations 
naturally arising in such a dreary solitude! He noted 
with satisfaction, however, that the parson’s daughter 
seemed to have forsaken the house. And now at last, 
having got rid of the folly that awhile possessed him, he 
was prepared to do his duty by the family, and, to that 
end, would make unfaltering use of the fascinations expe- 
rience had taught him he was, in a most exceptional de- 
gree, gifted with! He would at once take Arctura’s edu- 
cation in his own hands, and give his full energy to it. 
She should speedily learn the difference between the as- 
sistance of a gentleman and that of a clotpoll. 

He had in England improved in his riding as well as 
his manners, and knew at least how a gentleman, if not 
how a man, ought to behave to the beast that carried him. 
Also, having ridden a good deal with ladies, he was now 
able to give Arctura not a few hints to the improvement 
of her seat, her hand, her courage; nor was there any 
nearer road, he judged from what he knew of his cousin, 
to her confidence and gratitude, than showing her a better 
way in a thing. 

But thinking that in teaching her to ride he could 
make her forget the man who had been teaching her to 
live, he was not a little mistaken in the woman he desired 
to captivate. 

He did not yet love her even in the way he called lov- 
ing, else he might have been less confident; but he found 
her very pleasing. Invigorated by the bright, frosty air, 
the life of the animal under her, and the exultation of 
rapid motion, she seemed better in health, more merry 
and full of life, than he had ever seen her; he put all 
down to his success with her. He was incapable of sus- 
pecting how little of it was owing to him; incapable of 
believing how much to the fact that she now turned to 
the father of spirits without fear, almost without doubt; 


BONAL GRANT. 


365 


thought of him as the root of every delight of the world 
— -at the heart of the horse she rode, in the wind that 
blew joy into hers as she swept through its yielding bosom ; 
knew him as altogether loving and true, the father of 
Jesus Christ, as like him as like could be like — more like 
him than any one else in the universe could be like an- 
other — like him as only eternal son can be like eternal 
father. 

It was no wonder that with such a well of living water 
in her heart she should be glad — merry even, and ready 
for anything her horse could do! Flying across a field in 
the very wildness of pleasure, her hair streaming behind 
her, and her pale face glowing, she would now and then 
take a jump Forgue declared he could not face in cold 
blood: he did not know how far from cold her blood was! 
He began to wonder he had been such a fool as neglect 
her for — well, never mind! — and to feel something that 
was like love, and was indeed admiration. But for the 
searing brand of his past he might have loved her truly 
— as a man may, without being the most exalted of mor- 
tals; for in love we are beyond our ordinary selves; the 
deep thing in us peers up into the human air, and is of 
God — therefore cannot live long in the mephitic air of a 
selfish and low nature, but sinks again out of sight. 

He was not at his ease with Arctura; he was afraid of 
her. When a man is conscious of wrong, knows in his 
history what would draw a hideous smudge over the por- 
trait he would present to the eyes of her he would please, 
he may well be afraid of her. He makes liberal allow- 
ance for himself, but is not sure she will. And before 
Forgue lay a social gulf which he could pass only on the 
narrow plank of her favor. The more he was with her, 
the more he admired her, the more he desired to marry 
her; the more satisfied he grew with his own improve- 
ment, the more determined he became that for no poor, 
unjust scruples would he forego his happiness. There 
was but one trifle to be kept from the world; it might 
know everything else about him; and once in possession 
of the property, who would dispute the title? Then 
again he was not certain that his father had not merely 
invented a threat! Surely if the fact were such, he 
would, even in rage diabolic, have kept it to himself! 

Impetuous, and accustomed to what he counted success, 


366 


DONAL GRANT. 


he soon began to make plainer advance toward the end on 
which his self-love and cupidity at least were set. But, 
knowing in a vague manner how he had carried himself 
before he went, Arctura, uninfluenced by the ways of the 
world, her judgment un warped, her perception undimmed, 
her instincts nice, her personal delicacy exacting, had 
never imagined he could approach her on any ground but 
that of cousinship and a childhood of shared sports. She 
had seen that Donal was far from pleased with him, and 
believed Forgue knew that she knew he had been behav- 
ing badly. Her behavior to him was indeed largely based 
on the fact that he was in disgrace: she was sorry for 
him. 

By and by, however, she perceived that she had been 
allowing herself too much freedom where she was not pre- 
pared to allow more, and so one day declined to go with 
him. They had not had a ride for a fortnight, the 
weather having been unfavorable; and now when a morn- 
ing broke into the season like a smile from an estranged 
friend, she would not go. He was annoyed — then alarmed, 
fearing adverse influence. They were alone in the break- 
fast-room. 

“Why will you not, Arctura?” he asked reproachfully: 
“do you not feel well?” 

“I am quite well,” she answered. 

“It is such a lovely day!” he pleaded. 

“I am not in the mood. There are other things in the 
world besides riding, and I have been wasting my time — 
riding too much. I have learned next to nothing since 
Larkie came.” 

“Oh, bother! what have you to do with learning? 
Health is the first thing.” 

‘“I don’t think so — and learning is good for the health. 
Besides, I would not be a mere animal for perfect health !” 

“Let me help you then with your studies.” 

“Thank you,” she answered, laughing a little, “but I 
have a good master already! We, that is Davie and I, 
are reading Greek and mathematics with Mr. Grant.” 

Forgue’s face flushed. 

“I ought to know as much of both as he does!” he said, 

“Ought perhaps! But you know you do not.” 

“I know enough to be your tutor.” 

"‘Yfcs, but I know enough pot to be your pupiU ?? 


DONAL GRANT. 


367 


“What do yon mean?” 

“That you can’t teach.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Because you do not love either Greek or mathematics, 
and no one who does not love can teach.” 

“That is nonsense! If I don’t love Greek enough to 
teach it, I love you enough to teach you,” said Forgue. 

“You are my riding-master,” said Arctura; “Mr. Grant 
is my master in Greek.” 

Forgue strangled an imprecation on Mr. Grant, and 
tried to laugh, but there was not a laugh inside him. 

“Then you won’t ride to-day?” he said. 

“I think not,” replied Arctura. 

She ought to have said she would not. It is a pity to 
let doubt alight on decision. Her reply reopened the 
whole question. 

“I cannot see what should induce you to allow that fel- 
low the honor of reading with you!” said Forgue. “He’s 
a long-winded, pedantic, ill-bred lout!” 

“Mr. Grant is my friend!” said Arctura, and raising 
her head looked at him in the eyes. 

“Take my word for it, you are mistaken in him,” he 
said. 

“I neither value nor ask your opinion of him,” returned 
Arctura. “I merely acquaint you with the fact that he 
is my friend.” 

“Here’s the devil and all to pay!” thought Forgue. 
“I beg your pardon,” he said: “you do not know him as 
Ido!” 

“Not? And with so much better opportunity of judg- 
ing?” 

“He has never played the dominie with you!” said 
Forgue foolishly. 

“Indeed he has!” 

“He has! Confound his insolence! How?” 

“He won’t let me study as I want. How has he inter- 
fered with you?” 

“We won’t quarrel about him,” rejoined Forgue, at- 
tempting a tone of gayety, but instantly growing serious. 
“We who ought to be so much to each other ” 

Something told him he had already gone too far. 

“I do not know what you mean— or rather I am not 
willing to think I know what you mean,” said Arctura. 
“After what took place ” 


368 


DONAL GRANT. 


In her turn she ceased; he had said nothing. 

“Jealous!” concluded Forgue; “a good sign!” 

“I see he has been talking against me!” he said. 

“If you mean Mr. Grant, you mistake. He never, so 
far as I remember, once mentioned you to me.” 

“I know better!” 

“You are rude! He never spoke of it; but I have seen 
enough with my own eyes ” 

“If you mean that silly fancy — why, Arctura; you 
know it was but a boyish folly!” 

“And since then you have grown a man! How many 
months has it taken?” 

“I assure you, on the word of a gentleman, there is 
nothing in it now. It is all over, and I am heartily 
ashamed of it.” 

A pause of a few seconds followed; it seemed as many 
minutes, and unbearable. 

“You will come out with me?” said Forgue: she might 
be relenting, though she did not look like it! 

“No,” she said. “I will not.” 

“Well,” he returned, with simulated coolness, “this is 
rather cavalier treatment, I must say! To throw a man 
over who has loved you so long — and for the sake of a 
lesson in Greek!” 

“How long, pray, have you loved me?” said Arctura, 
growing angry. “I was willing to be friendly with you, 
so much so that I am sorry it is no longer possible.” 

“You punish me pretty sharply, my lady, for a trifle of 
which I told you I was ashamed,” said Forgue, biting 
his lip. “It was the merest ” 

“I do not wish to hear anything about it!” said Arctura 
sternly. Then, afraid she had been unkind, she added in 
altered tone: “You had better go and have a gallop. 
You may have Larkie if you like.” 

He turned and left the room. She only meant to pique 
him, he said to himself. She had been cherishing her 
displeasure, and now she had had her revenge, would feel 
better and be sorry next! It was a very good morning’s 
work after all! It was absurd to think she preferred a 
Greek lesson from a clown to a ride with Lord Forgue! 
Was not she too a Graeme? 

Partly to make reconciliation the easier, partly because 
the horse was superior to his own, he would ride Larkie. 


DONAL GRANT. 


369 


But his reasoning was not so satisfactory to him as to 
put him in a good temper, and poor Larkie had to suffer 
for his ill-humor. His least movement that displeased 
him put him in a rage, and he rode him so foolishly as 
well as tyranncally that he brought him home quite lame, 
thus putting an end for a time to all hope of riding again 
with Arctura. 

Instead of going and telling her what he had done, he 
sent for the farrier, and gave orders that the mishap 
should not be mentioned. 

A week passed, and then another, and as he could say 
nothing about riding, he was in a measure self-banished 
from Arctura’s company. A furious jealousy began to 
master him. He scorned to give place to it because of 
the insult to himself if he allowed a true ground for it. 
But it gradually gained power. This country bumpkin, 
this cowherd, this man of spelling-books and grammars, 
to come between his cousin and him! Of course he was 
not so silly as to imagine *or a moment she cared for him — 
that she would disgrace herself by falling in love with a 
fellow just loosed from the plow-tail! She was a Graeme, 
and could never be a traitor to her blood! If only he had 
not been such an infernal fool! A vulgar little thing 
without an idea in her head! So unpleasant — so disgust- 
ing at last with her love-making! Nothing pleased her 
but hugging and kissing! That was how he spoke to 
himself of the girl he had been in love with! 

Damn that schoolmaster! She would never fall in love 
with him, but he might prevent her from falling in love 
with another! No attractions could make way against 
certain prepossessions! The girl had a fancy for being a 
saint, and the lout burned incense to her! So much he 
gathered from Davie. His father must get rid of the 
fellow! If he thought he was doing so well with Davie, 
why not send the two away together till things were set- 
tled? 

But the earl thought it would be better to win Donal. 
He counseled him that every Grant was Lord Seafield’s 
cousin, and every Highlander an implacable enemy where 
his pride was hurt. His lordship did not reflect that, if 
what he said were true of Donal, he must have left the 
castle long ago. There was but one thing would have 
made it impossible for Donal to remain — interference, 
namely, between him and his pupil. 


370 


DONAL GRANT. 


Forgue did not argue with his father. He had given 
that up. At the same time, if he had told all that had 
passed between him and Doual, the earl would have con- 
fessed he had advised an impossibility. 

Forgue took a step in a very different direction: he be- 
gan to draw to himself the good graces of Miss Carmichael: 
he did not know how little she could serve him. With- 
out being consciously insincere, she flattered him, and 
speedily gained his confidence. Well descended on the 
mother’s side, she had grown up tit, her father said, to 
adorn any society; with a keen appreciation of the claims 
and dignities of the aristocracy, she was well able to flatter 
the prejudices she honored and shared in. Careful not to 
say a word against his cousin, she made him feel more 
and more that his chief danger lay in the influence of 
Donal. She fanned thus his hatred of the man who first 
came between him and his wrath; next, between him and 
his “love;” and last, between him and his fortunes. 

If only Davie would fall ill, and require change of air! 
But Davie was always in splendid health. 

Now that he saw himself in such danger of failing, he 
fancied himself far more in love with Arctura than he 
was. And as he got familiarized with the idea of his 
illegitimacy, although he would not assent to it. he made 
less and less of it — which would have been a proof to any 
other than himself that he believed it. In further sign 
of the same, he made no inquiry into the matter — did not 
once even question his father about it. If it was true, he 
did not want to know it: he would treat his lack of proof 
as ignorance, and act as with the innocence of ignorance! 
A fellow must take for granted what was commonly be- 
lieved. At last, and the last was not long in arriving, he 
almost ceased to trouble himself about it. 

His father laughed at his fear of failure with Arctura, 
but at times contemplated the thing as an awful possibil- 
ity — not that he loved Forgue much. The only way 
fathers in sight of the grave can fancy themselves holding 
on to the things they must leave, is in their children; but 
Lord Morven had a stronger and better reason for his 
unrighteousness: in a troubled, self-reproachful way, he 
loved the memory of their mother, and through her "cared 
even for Forgue more than he knew. They were also his 
own as much as if he had been legally married to her. 


ZONAL GRANT \ 


371 


For the relation in which they stood to society he cared 
little so long as it continued undiscovered. He enjoyed 
the idea of stealing a march on society, and seeing the 
sons he had left at such a disadvantage behind him ruf- 
fling it, in spite of absurd law, with the foolish best. 

From the grave he would so have his foot on the neck 
of his enemy Law! — he was one of the many who can re- 
joice in even a stolen victory. Nor would he ever have 
been the fool to let the truth fly, except under the reac- 
tion of evil drugs, and the rush of fierce wrath at the 
threatened ruin of his cherished scheme. 

Arctura thenceforth avoided her cousin as much as she 
could — only remembering that the house was hers, and 
she must not make him feel he was not welcome to use it. 
They met at meals, and she tried to behave as if nothing 
unpleasant had happened, and things were as before he 
went away. 

“You are very cruel, Arctura/’ he said one morning he 
met her in the terrace avenue. 

“Cruel?” returned Arctura coldly; “I am not cruel. 
I would not willingly hurt any one.” 

“You hurt me much; you give me not a morsel, not a 
crumb of your society!” 

“Percy,” said Arctura, “if you will be content to be 
my cousin, we shall get on well enough; but if you are 
set on what cannot be — once for all, believe me, it is of 
no use. You are for none of the things I live for! I feel 
'as if we belonged to different worlds, so little have we in 
common. You may think me hard, but it is better we 
should understand each other. If you imagine that, be- 
cause I have the property you have a claim on me, be 
sure I will never acknowledge it. I would a thousand 
times rather you had the property and I were in my 
grave!” 

‘“I will be anything, do anything, learn anything you 
please!” cried Forgue, his heart aching with disappoint- 
ment. 

“I know what such submission is worth !” said Arctura. 
“I should be everything till we were married, and then 
nothing! You dissemble, you hide even from yourself, 
but you are not hard to read.” 

Perhaps she would not have spoken just so severely 
had she not been that morning unusually annoyed with 


372 


DONAL GRANT. 


his behavior to Donal, and at the same time specially 
pleased with the calm, unconsciously dignified way in 
which Donal took it, casting it from him as the rock 
throws aside the sea-wave: it did not concern him! The 
dull world has got the wrong phrase: it is he who resents 
an affront who pockets it! he who takes no notice lets it 
iie in the dirt. 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 

LARKIE. 

It was a lovely day in spring. 

“Please, Mr. Grant, ” said Davie, “may I have a holi- 
day ?” 

Donal looked at him with a little wonder: the boy had 
never before made such a request! But he answered him 
at once. 

“Yes, certainly, Davie. But I should like to know 
what you want it for.” 

“Arkie wants very much to have a ride to-day. She 
says Larkie— I gave him his name, to rhyme with Arkie — 
she says Larkie will forget her, and she does not wish to 
go out with Forgue, so she wants me to go with her on 
my pony.” 

“You will take good care of her, Davie?” 

“I will take care of her, but you need not be anxious 
about us, Mr. Grant. Arkie is a splendid rider, and much 
pluckier than she used to be.” 

Donal did, however — he could not have said why — feel 
a little anxiety. He repressed it as unfaithfulness, but it 
kept returning. He could not go with them — there was 
no horse for him, and to go on foot would, he feared, 
spoil their ride. He was so much afraid also of presum- 
ing on Lady Arctura’s regard for him that he would have 
shrunk from offering had it been more feasible. He got 
a book, and strolled into the park, not even going to see 
them off: Forgue might be about the stable, and make 
things unpleasant! 

Had Forgue been about the stable, he would, I think, 
have somehow managed to prevent the ride for Larkie, 
though much better, was not yet cured of his lameness. 
Arctura did not know he had been lame, or that he had 


DONAL GRANT. 


373 


therefore been very little exercised, and was now rather 
wild, with a pastern-joint far from equal to his spirit. 
There was but a boy about the stable, who either did not 
understand, or was afraid to speak: she rode in a danger 
of which she knew nothing. The consequence was that, 
jumping the merest little ditch in a field outside the park, 
they had a fall. The horse got up and trotted limping to 
the stable; his mistress lay where she fell. Davie, wild 
with misery, galloped home. From the height of the 
park Donal saw him tearing along, and knew something 
was amiss. He ran, got over the wall, found the pony’s 
track, and following it, came where Arctura lay. 

There was a little clear water in the ditch: he wet his 
handkerchief, and bathed her face. She came to herself, 
opened her eyes with a faint smile, and tried to raise her- 
self, but fell back helpless, and closed her eyes again. 

“I believe I am hurt!” she murmured. ‘‘I think 
Larkie must have fallen!” 

Donal would have carried her, but she moaned so that 
he gave up the idea at once. Davie was gone for help: it 
would be better to wait. He pulled off his coat and laid 
it over her, then kneeling, raised her head a little from 
the damp ground upon his arm. She let him do as he 
pleased, but did not open her eyes. 

They had not long to wait. Several came running, 
among them Lord Forgue. He fell beside his cousin on 
his knees, and took her hand in his. She neither moved 
nor spoke. As instead of doing anything he merely per- 
sisted in claiming her attention, Donal saw it was for him 
to give orders. 

“My lady is much hurt,” he said; “one of you go at 
once for the doctor; the others bring a hand-barrow — I 
know there is one about the place. Lay the squab of a 
sofa on it, and make haste. Let Mistress Brookes know.” 

“Mind your own business,” said Forgue. 

“Do as Mr. Grant tells you,” said Lady Arctura, with- 
out opening her eyes. 

The men departed running. Forgue rose from his 
knees, and walked slowly to a little distance, where he 
stood gnawing his lip. 

“My lord,” said Donal, “please run and fetch a little 
brandy for her ladyship. She has fainted.” 

What could Forgue do but obey! He started at once, 


374 


TONAL grant. 


and with tolerable speed. Then Aretnra opened her eyes, 
and smiled. 

“Are you suffering much, my lady?” asked Donal. 

“A good deal,” she answered, “but I don’t mind it. 
Thank you for not leaving me. It is no more than I can 
bear, only bad when I try to move.” 

“They will not be long now,” he said. 

Again she closed her eyes, and was silent. Donal 
watched the sweet face, which a cloud of suffering would 
every now and then cross, and lifted up his heart to the 
Saviour of men. 

He saw them coming with the extemporized litter, be- 
hind them Mistress Brookes, with Forgue and one of 
the maids. 

When she came up she addressed herself in silence to 
Donal. He told her he feared her ladyship’s spine was 
hurt. After his direction she put her hands under her 
and the maid took her feet, while he, placing his other 
arm under her shoulders, and gently rising, raised her 
body. Being all strong and gentle, they managed the 
moving well, and laid her slowly on the litter. Except a 
moan or two, and a gathering of the brows, she gave no 
sign of suffering; nothing to be called a cry escaped her. 

Donal at the head and a groom at the foot, lifted the 
litter, and with ordered step started for the house. Once 
or twice she opened her eyes and looked up at Donal, 
then, as if satisfied, closed them again. Before they 
reached the house the doctor met them, for they had to 
walk slowly. 

Forgue came behind in a devilish humor. He knew 
that first his ill usage of Larkie, and then his preventing 
anything being said about it, must have been the cause of 
the accident; but he felt with some satisfaction — for self 
simply makes devils of us —that if she had not refused to 
go out with him, it would not have happened; he would 
not have allowed her to mount Larkie. “Served her 
right!” he caught himself saying once, and was ashamed 
— but presently said it again. Self is as full of worms as 
it can hold; God deliver us from it! 


DONAL GRANT. 


37 5 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

THE SICK-CHAMBER. 

She was carried to her room and laid on her bed. 
The doctor requested Mrs. Brookes and Donal to remain, 
and dismissed the rest, then proceeded to examine her. 
There were no bones broken, he said, but she must be 
kept very quiet. The windows must be darkened, and 
she must if possible sleep. She gave Donal a faint smile, 
and a pitiful glance, but did not speak. As he was fol- 
lowing the doctor from the room, she made a sign to Mrs. 
Brookes with her eyes that she wanted to speak to him. 

He came, and bent over to hear, for she spoke very 
feebly. 

“You will come and see me, Mr. Grant?” 

“I will, indeed, my lady.” 

“Every day?” 

“Yes, most certainly,” he replied. 

She smiled, and so dismissed him. He went with his 
heart full. 

A little way from the door stood Forgue, waiting for 
him to come out. He had sent the doctor to his father. 
Donal passed him with a bend of the head. He followed 
him to the schoolroom. 

“It is time this farce was over, Grant!” he said. 

“Farce, my lord!” repeated Donal indignantly. 

“These attentions to my lady.” 

“I have paid her no more attention than I would your 
lordship, had you required it,” answered Donal sternly. 

“That would have been convenient doubtless! But 
there has been enough of humbug, and now for an end to 
it! Ever since you came here you have been at work on 
the mind of that inexperienced girl — with your damned 
religion— for what end you know best! And now you’ve 
half-killed her by persuading her to go out with you in- 
stead of me. The brute was lame and not fit to ride. 
Any fool might have seen that!” 

“I had nothing to do with her going, my lord. She 
asked Davie to go with her, and he had a holiday on 
purpose.” 

“All very fine, but ” 

“My lord, I have told you the truth, but not to justify 


376 


DONAL GRANT. 


myself; yon must be aware your opinion is of no value in 
my eyes! But tell me one thing, my lord : if my lady’s 
horse was lame, how was it she did not know? You did.” 

Forgue thought Donal knew more than he did, and was 
taken aback. 

“It is time the place was clear of you!” he said. 

“I am your father’s servant, not yours,” answered 
Donal,” and do not trouble myself as to your pleasure 
concerning me. But I think it is only fair to warn you 
that, though you cannot hurt me, nothing but honesty 
can take you out of my power.” 

Forgue turned on his heel, went to his father, and told 
him he knew now that Donai was prejudicing the mind 
of Lady Arctura against him ; but not until it came in 
the course of the conversation did he mention the acci- 
dent she had had. 

The earl professed himself greatly shocked, got up with 
something almost like alacrity from his sofa, and went 
down to inquire after his niece. He would have compelled 
Mrs. Brookes to admit him, but she was determined her 
lady should not be waked from a sleep invaluable to her 
for the sake of receiving his condolements, and he had to 
return to his room without gaining anything. 

If she were to go, the property would be his, and he 
could will it as he pleased — that was, if she left no will. 
He sent for his son and cautioned him over and over to 
do nothing to offend her, but wait; what might come, 
who could tell! It might prove a serious affair! Forgue 
tried to feel shocked at the coolness of his father’s specu- 
lation, but allowed that, if she was determined not to 
receive him as her husband, the next best thing, in the 
exigence of affairs, would certainly be that she should 
leave a world for whose uses she was ill-fitted, and go 
where she would be happier. The things she would then 
have no further need of would be welcome to those to 
whom by right they belonged more really than to her. 
She was a pleasant thing to look upon, and if she had 
loved him he would rather have had the property with 
than without her; but there was this advantage, he would 
be left free to choose. 

Lady Arctura lay suffering, feverish, and restless. Mrs. 
Brookes would let no one sit up with her but herself. 
The earl would have sent for “a suitable nurse” — a friend 


DONAL GRANT. 


377 


of his in London would find one — but she would not hear 
of it. And before the night was over she had greater 
reason for refusing to yield her post; it was evident her 
young mistress was more occupied with Donal Grant than 
with the pain she was suffering! In her delirium she was 
constantly desiring his presence. “I know he can help 
me/’ she would say, “he is a shepherd, like the Lord 
himself.’’ And Mrs. Brookes, though by no means de- 
void of the prejudices of the rank with which her life had 
been so much associated, could not but allow that a nobler 
life must be possible with one like Donal Grant than with 
one like Lord Forgue. 

In the middle of the night Arctura became so unquiet 
that her nurse, calling the maid she had in a room near, 
flew like a bird to Donal, and asked him to come down. 
He had but partially undressed, thinking his help might 
be wanted, and was down almost as soon as she. Ere he 
came, however, she had dismissed the maid. 

Donal went to the bedside. Arctura was moaning and 
starting, sometimes opening her eyes, but distinguishing 
nothing. Her hand lay on the counterpane; he laid his 
upon it. She gave a sigh as of one relieved ; a smile came 
flickering over her face, and she lay still for some time. 
Donal sat down beside her and watched. The moment 
he saw her begin to be restless or look distressed, he laid 
his hand upon hers; she was immediately quiet, and lay 
for a time as if she knew herself safe. When she seemed 
about to wake, he withdrew. 

So things went on for many nights. Donal slept in- 
stead of working when his duties with Davie were over, 
and lay at night in the corridor, wrapped in his plaid. 
For even after Arctura began to recover her nights were 
sorely troubled, and her restoration would have been 
much retarded had not Donal been near to make her feel 
she was not abandoned to the terrors she passed through. 

One night the earl, wandering about in the anomalous 
condition of neither ghost nor genuine mortal, came sud- 
denly upon what he took for a huge animal in wait to 
devour. He was not terrified, for he was accustomed to 
such things, and thought at first it was not of this world; 
he had no doubt of the reality of his visions, even when 
he knew they were invisible to others, and even in his 
waking moments had begun to believe in them as much 


378 


DONAL GRANT. 


as in the things then evident to him — or rather, perhaps, 
to disbelieve equally in both. He approached to see what 
it was, and stood staring down upon the mass. Gently it 
rose and confronted him — if confronting that may be 
called where the face remained so undefined — for Donal 
took care to keep his plaid over his head; he had hope in 
the probable condition of the earl. He turned from him 
and walked away. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

A PLOT. 

But his lordship had his suspicions, and took measures 
to confirm or set them at rest — with the result that he 
concluded Donal madly in love with his niece, and unable, 
while she was ill, to rest anywhere but, with the devotion 
of a savage, outside her door; if he did not take precau- 
tions, the lout would oust the lord! Ever since Donal 
spoke so plainly against his self-indulgence, he had not 
merely hated but feared the country lad. He recognized 
that Donal feared nothing, had no respect of persons, 
would speak out before the world. He was doubtful also 
whether he had not allowed him to know more than it 
was well he should know. It was time to get rid of him 
— only it must be done cautiously, with the appearance of 
a good understanding! If he had him out of the house 
before she was able to see him again, that would do! And 
if in the meantime she should die, all would be well! 
His distrust, once roused, went further than that of his 
son. He had not the same confidence in blue blood; he 
knew a few things more than Eorgue — believed it quite 
possible that the daughter of a long descent of lords and 
ladies should fall in love with a shepherd-lad. And as no 
one could tell what might have to be done if the legal 
owner of the property persisted in refusing her hand to 
the rightful owner of it, the fellow might be seriously in 
the way. 

Arctura slowly recovered. She had not yet left her room, 
but had been a few hours on the couch every day for a 
fortnight, and the doctor, now sanguine of her final re- 
covery, began to talk of carrying her to the library. The 


DONAL GRANT. 


379 


earl, who never suspected that Mrs. Brookes, having 
hitherto kept himseif from her room, would admit the 
tutor, the moment he learned that the library was in view 
for her, decided that there must be no more delay. He 
had by this time contrived a neat little plan. 

He sent for Donal. He had been thinking, the earl 
said, that he must want a holiday : he had not seen his 
parents since he came to the castle! and he had been 
thinking, besides, how desirable it was that Davie should 
see some other phases of life than those to which he had 
hitherto been accustomed. There was great danger o± 
boys brought up in his position getting narrow and care- 
less of the lives and feelings of their fellow-men! He 
would take it as a great kindness if Donal, who had a re- 
gard to the real education of his pupil, would take him to 
his home, and let him understand the ways of life among 
the humbler classes of the nation — so that, if ever he went 
into parliament, he might have the advantage of knowing 
the heart of the people for whom he would have to legis- 
late. 

Donal listened, and could not but agree with the re- 
marks of his lordship. In himself he had not the least 
faith — wondered indeed which of them thought the other 
the greater fool to imagine that after all that had passed 
Donal would place any confidence in what the earl said; 
but he listened. What Lord Morven really had in his 
mind he could not surmise; but not the less to take Davie 
to his father and mother was a delightful idea. The boy 
was growing fast, and had revealed a faculty quite rare in 
one so young, for looking to the heart of things, and see- 
ing the relation of man to man; therefore such a lesson as 
the earl proposed would indeed be invaluable to him. 
Then again, this faculty had been opened in him through 
a willing perception of those eternal truths, in a still 
higher relation of persons, which are open only to the 
childlike nature; whence he would be especially fitted for 
such company as that of his father and mother, who could 
now easily receive the boy as well as himself, since their 
house and their general worldly condition had been so much 
bettered by their friend, Sir Gibbie! With them Davie 
would see genuine life, simplicity, dignity, and unselfish- 
ness — the very embodiment of the things he held con- 
stantly before him! There might be some other reason 


380 


DONAL ORANT. 


behind the earl’s request which it would he well for him 
to know; but he would sooner discover that by a free con- 
sent than by hanging back; anything bad it could hardly 
be! He shrunk indeed from leaving Lady Arctura while 
she was yet so far from well, but she was getting well 
much faster now: for a fortnight there had been no ne- 
cessity for his presence to soothe her while she slept. 
Neither did she yet know, so far, at least, as he or Mrs. 
Brookes was aware, that he had ever been near her in the 
night. It was well also, because of the position of things 
between him and Lord Forgue, that he should be away 
for awhile: it would give a chance for that foolish soul to 
settle down, and let common sense assume the reins, 
while yet the better coachman was not allowed to mount 
the box. He had, of course, heard nothing of the strained 
relations between him and Lady Arctura; he might other- 
wise have been a little more anxious. For the earl, Davie, 
he thought, would be a kind of pledge or hostage — in re- 
gard of what he could not specify; but, though he little 
suspected what such a man was capable of sacrificing to 
gain a cherished end, some security for him, some hold 
over him, seemed to Donal not undesirable. 

When Davie heard the proposal, he was wild with joy. 
Actually to see the mountains, and the sheep, and the 
collies, of which Donal had told him such wonderful 
things! To be out all night, perhaps, with Donal and 
the dogs and the stars and the winds! Perhaps a storm 
would come, and he would lie in Donal’s plaid under 
some great rock, and hear the wind roaring around them, 
but not able to get at them! And the sheep would come 
and huddle close up to them, and keep them warm with 
their woolly sides! and he would stroke their heads and 
love them! Davie was no longer a mere child — far from 
it; but what is loveliest in the child’s heart was only the 
stronger in him; and the prospect of going with Donal 
was a thing to be dreamed of day and night till it came. 
Nor were the days many before their departure was defi- 
nitely settled. 

The earl would have Mr. Grant treat his pupil precisely 
as one of his own standing; he might take him on foot if 
ho pleased. 

The suggestion was eagerly accepted by both. They 
got their boxes ready for the carrier, packed their wallets, 


DONAL GRANT. 


381 


and one lovely morning late in spring, just as summer 
was showiug her womanly face through its smiles and 
tears, they set out together. 

It was with no small dismay that Arctura heard of the 
proposal. She said nothing, however — only when Donal 
came to take his leave she broke down a little. 

“We shall often wish, Davie and I, that you were with 
us, my lady,” he said. 

“Why?” she asked, unable to say more. 

“Because we shall often feel happy, and what then can 
we do but wish you shared our happiness!” 

She burst into tears, and presently was able to speak. 

“Don’t think me silly,” she said. “I know God is 
with me: and as soon as you are gone I will go to him to 
comfort me. But I cannot help feeling as if you were 
leaving me like a lamb among wolves. I can give no rea- 
son for it; I only feel as if some danger were near me. 
But I have you yet, Mistress Brookes: God and you will 
take care of me! Indeed, if I hadn’t you,” she added, 
laughing through her tears, “I should run away with Mr. 
Grant and Davie!” 

“If I had known you felt like that,” said Donal, “I 
would not have gone. Yet I hardly see how I could have 
avoided it, being Davie’s tutor, and bound to do as his 
father wishes with him. Only, dear Lady Arctura, there 
is no chance in this or in anything! We will not forget 
you, and in three weeks or a month we shall be back.” 

“That is a long time,” said Arctura, ready to weep 
again. 

Is it necessary to say she was not a weak woman? It is 
not betrayal of feeling, but avoidance of duty, that con- 
stitutes weakness. After an illness he has borne like a 
hero, a strong man may be ready to weep like a child. 
What the common people of society think about strength 
and weakness is poor stuff, like the rest of their wisdom. 

She speedily recovered her composure, and with the 
gentlest smile bade Donal good-by. She was in her sitting- 
room next the state-chamber where she now slept; the 
sun was shining in at the open window, and with it came 
the song of a little bird, clear and sweet. 

“You hear him,” said Donal, “how he trusts God with- 
out knowing it! We are made able to trust him, knowing 
in whom we believe! Ah, dear Lady Arctura! no heart 


382 


DONAL GRANT, 


even yet can tell what things God has in store for them 
who will just let him have his way with them. Good-by. 
Write to me if anything comes to you that I can help you 
in. And be sure I will make haste to you the moment 
you let me know you want me.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Grant: I know you mean every word 
you say! If I need you, I will not hesitate to send for 
you— only if you come, it will be as my friend, and 
not ” 

“It will be as your servant, not Lord Morven’s,” said 
Donal. “I quite understand. Good-by. The Father of 
Jesus Christ, who was so sure of him, will take care of 
you; do not be afraid.” 

He turned and went; he could no longer bear the look 
of her eyes. 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

GLASHGAR. 

Out of Arctura’s sight Donal had his turn of so-called 
weakness. 

The day was a glorious one, and Davie, full of spirits, 
could not understand why he seemed so unlike himself. 

“Arkie would scold you, Mr. Grant!” he said. 

Donal avoided the town, and walked a long way round 
to get into the road beyond it, his head bent as if he were 
pondering a pain. At moments he felt as if he must re- 
turn at once, and refuse to leave the castle for any reason. 
But he could not see that it was the will of God he should 
do so. A presentiment is not a command. A prophecy 
may fail of the least indication of duty. Hamlet defying 
augury is the consistent religious man Shakespeare, takes 
pains to show him. A presentiment may be true, may be 
from God himself, yet involve no reason why a man should 
change his way, should turn a step aside from the path 
before him. St. Paul received warning after warning on 
his road to Jerusalem that bonds and imprisonment 
awaited him, and these warnings he knew came from the 
spirit of prophecy, but he heeded them only to set his 
face like a flint. He knew better than imagine duty de- 
termined by consequences, or take foresight for direction. 
There is a higher guide, and he followed that. So did 


DONAL GRANT. 


383 


Donal now. Moved to go back, he did not go back — 
neither afterward repented that he did not. 

I will not describe the journey. Suffice it to say that, 
after a few days of such walking as befitted an unaccus- 
tomed boy, they climbed the last hill, crossed the thresh- 
old of Kobert Grant’s cottage, and were both clasped in 
the embrace of Janet. For Davie rushed into the arms 
of Donal’s mother, and she took him to the same heart to 
which she had taken wee Sir Gibbie; the bosom of the 
peasant woman was indeed one to flee to. 

Then followed delights which more than equaled the 
expectations of Davie. One of them was seeing how 
Donal was loved. Another was a new sense of freedom : 
he had never imagined such liberty as he now enjoyed. 
It was as if God were giving it to him fresh out of his 
sky, his mountains, his winds. Then there was the twi- 
light on the hillside, with the sheep growing dusky 
around him; when Donal would talk about the shepherd 
of the human sheep; and hearing him Davie felt not only 
that there was once, but that there is now, a man alto- 
gether lovely — the heart of all beauty everywhere — a man 
who gave himself up to his perfect Father and his Father’s 
most imperfect children, that he might bring his brothers 
and sisters home to their Father; for all his delight is in 
his Father and his Father’s children. He showed him 
how the heart of Jesus was, all through, the heart of a 
son, a son that adored his perfect Father; and how if he 
had not had his perfect Son to help him, God could not 
have made any of us, could never have got us to be his 
little sons and daughters, loving him with all our might. 
Then Davie’s heart would glow, and he would feel ready 
to do whatever that Son might want him to do; and Donal 
hoped, and had good ground for hoping, that, when the 
hour of trial came, the youth would be able to hold, not 
merely by the unseen, but by the seemingly unpresent 
and unfelt, in the name of the eternally true. 

Donal’s youth began to seem far behind him. All bit- 
terness was gone out of his memories of Lady Galbraith. 
He loved her tenderly, but was pleased she should be 
Gibbie’s. 

How much of this happy change was owing to his inter- 
est in Lady Arctura he did not inquire: greatly interested 
in her — more in very important ways than he had ever 


384 


DONAL 0RAN1. 


been in Lady Galbraith — he was so jealous of his heart, 
shrunk so much from the danger of folly, knew so well 
how small an amount of yielding might unfit him for the 
manly and fresh performance of his duties — among which 
came first a due regard for her well-being lest he should 
himself fail or mislead her — that he often turned his 
thoughts into another channel, lest in that they should 
run too swiftly, deepen it too fast, and go far to imprison 
themselves in another agony. 

To Lady Galbraith he confided bis uneasiness about 
Lady Arctura— not that he could explain — he could only 
confess himself infected with her uneasiness, and the 
rather that he knew better than she the nature of those 
with whom she might have to cope. If Mrs. Brookes had 
not been there, he dared not have come away, he said, 
leaving her with such a dread upon her. 

Sir Gibbie listened open-mouthed to the tale of the 
finding of the lost chapel; hidden away because it held 
the dust of the dead, and perhaps sometimes their wan- 
dering ghosts. 

They assured him that, if he would bring Lady Arctura 
to them, they would take care of her: had she not better 
give up the weary property, they said, and come and live 
with them, and be free as the lark? But Donal said that 
if God had given her a property, he would not have her 
forsake her post, but wait for him to relieve her. She 
must administer her own kingdom ere she could have an 
abundant entrance into his! Only he wished he were 
near her again to help her. 


CHAPTER LXXII. 

SENT, NOT CALLED. 

He had been at home about ten days, during which not 
a word had come to Davie or himself from the castle, and 
was beginning to grow, not perhaps anxious, but hungry 
for news of Lady Arctura, when from a sound sleep he 
started suddenly awake one midnight to find his mother 
by his bedside: she had roused him with difficulty. 

‘‘Laddie, ” she said, “Pm tbinkin’ ye’re wantit.” 

“Whaur am I wantit, mother?” he asked, rubbing his 
eyes, but with anxiety already throbbing at his heart. 


DONAL GRANT. 


385 


J 

“At the castle,” she replied. 

“Hoo ken ye that?” he asked. 

“It wad be ill tellin’ ye,” she answered. “But gien I 
was you, Donal, I wad be ail afore the day brak, to see 
what they’re duin’ wi’ yon puir leddy at the muckle place 
ye left. My hert’s that sair aboot her, I canna rest a 
moment till I hae ye awa’ upo’ the ro’d til her!” 

Long before his mother had ended Donal was out of 
bed and hurrying on his clothes. He had the profound- 
est faith in whatever his mother said. Was it a vision 
she had had? He had never been told she had the second 
sight! It might have been only a dream or an impression 
so deep she must heed it. One thing was plain: there 
was no time to ask questions. It was enough that his 
mother said “Go;” more than enough that it was for 
Lady Arctura! How quickest could he go? There were 
horses at Sir Gibbie’s; he would make free with one! He 
put a crust of bread in his pocket, and set out running. 
There was a little moonlight, enough for one who knew 
every foot of the way; and in half an hour of swift de- 
scent he was at the stable door of Glashruach. 

Finding himself unable to rouse any one, he crept 
through a way he knew, opened the door without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, saddled and bridled Sir Gibbie’s favorite 
mare, led her out, and mounted her. 

Safe in the saddle, with four legs busy under him, he 
had time to think, and began to turn over in his mind 
what he must do. But he soon saw there was no plan- 
ning anything till he knew what was the matter — of which 
he had dreadful forebodings. His imagination started 
and spurred by fear, he thought of many dread possibili- 
ties concerning which he wondered that he had never 
thought of them before: if he had he could not have left 
the castle! What might not a man in the mental and 
moral condition of the earl, unrestrained by law or con- 
science, risk to secure the property for his son? Might 
he not poison her, smother her, kill her somehow, anyhow 
that was safest? Then rushed into his mind what the 
housekeeper had told him of his cruelty to his wife: a 
man like that, no longer feeling, however knowing the 
difference between right and wrong, hardly knowing the 
difference between dreaming a thing and doing the thing, 
was no fitter member of a family than any devil in or out 


386 


DONAL GRANT. 


of hell! He would have blamed himself bitterly had he 
not been sure he was not following his own will in going 
away. If there were a better way it had not been intended 
he should take it, else it would have been shown him! 
But now he would be restrained by no delicacy toward the 
earl: whatever his hand found to do he would do, regard- 
less of appearances! If he could not reach Lady Arctura, 
he would seek the help of the law, tell what he knew, and 
get a warrant of search. He dared not think what he 
dreaded, but he would trust nothing but seeing her with 
his own eyes, and hearing from her own mouth that all 
was well — which could not be, else why should his mother 
have sent him to her? Doubtless the way would unfold 
before him as he went on; but if everything should seem 
to go against him, he would yet say with Sir Philip Sidney 
that, “Since a man is bound no further to himself than to 
do wisely, chance is only to trouble them that stand upon 
chance. ” If his plans or attempts should one after the 
other fail, “there’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough- 
hew them how we will!” So he rode on, careful over his 
mare, lest much haste should be little speed. The animal 
was strong and in good condition, and by the time Dortal 
had seen the sun rise, ascend the heavens, and go half- 
way down their western slope, and had stopped three 
times to refresh the mare, he found himself, after much 
climbing and descent, on a good level road that promised 
by nightfall to bring him to the place of his desire. 

But the mare was now getting tired, and no wonder, 
for she had had more than a hard day’s work. Donal dis- 
mounted every now and then to relieve her, that he might 
go the faster when he mounted again, comforting himself 
that in the true path the delays are as important as the 
speed; for the hour is the point, not the swiftness: an 
hour too soon may even be more disastrous than an hour 
too late! He would arrive at the right time for Him 
whose ways are not as our ways inasmuch as they are 
greatly better! The sun went down and the stars came 
out, and the long twilight began. 

But before he was a mile further he became aware that 
the sky had clouded over, the stars had vanished, and rain 
was at hand. The day had been sultry, and relief was 
come. Lightning flamed out, and darkness full of thun- 
der followed. The storm was drawing nearer, but his 


J 


DONAL GRANT. 


387 


mare, though young and high-spirited, was too weary to 
he frightened; the rain refreshed both, and they made a 
little more speed. But it was dark night, with now 
grumbling, now raging storm, before they came where, 
had it been light, Donal would have looked to see the 
castle. 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

IN THE NIGHT. 

When he reached the town, he rode into the yard of 
the Morven Arms, and having found a sleepy hostler, 
gave up his mare; he would be bet-ter without her at the 
castle — whither he was setting out to walk when the land- 
lord appeared. 

“We didna luik to see tou, sir, at this time,” he said. 

“Why not?” returned Donah 

“We thoucht ye was awa’ for the simmer, seein’ ye tuik 
the yoong gentleman wi’ ye an’ the yerl himseP followt!” 

“Where is he gone?’’ asked Donal. 

“Oh! dinna ye ken, sir? hae na ye h’ard?” 

“Not a word.” 

“That’s verra strange, sir! There’s a clean clearance , 
at the castel. First gaed my Lord Forgue, an’ syne my 
lord himsel’ an’ my lady, an’ syne gaed the hoosekeeper 
— her mither was deein’, they said. I’m thinkin’ there 
maun he a weddin’ to the foie. There was some word o’ 
fittin’ up the auld boose i’ the toon, ’cause Lord Forgue 
didna care aboot bein’ at the castel ony langer. It’s 
strange ye haena h’ard, sir!” 

Donal stood absorbed in awful hearing. Surely some 
letter must have miscarried! The sure and firm-set earth 
seemed giving way under his feet. 

“I will run up to the castle, and hear all about it,” he 
said. “Look after my mare, will you?” 

“But I’m tellin’ ye, sir, ye’ll fin’ naebody there!” said 
the man. “They’re a’ gane frae the hoose ony gait. 
There’s no a sowl aboot that but deif Betty Lobban, wha 
wadna hear the angel wi’ the last trump. Mair by token, 
she’s that feart for robbers she gangs til her bed the min- 
ute it begins to grow dark, an’ sticks her heid ’aneth the 
bed-claes — no ’at that maks her ony deifer!” 


388 


DONAL GRANT, 


“Then yon think there is no use in going up?” 

“Not the smallest,” answered the inn-keeper. 

“Get me some supper then. I will take a look at my 
mare.” 

He went and saw that she was attended to — then set off 
for the castle as fast as his legs would carry him. There 
was foul play beyond a doubt — of what sort he could not 
tell! If the man’s report was correct, he would go straight 
to the police! Then first he remembered, in addition to 
the other reported absences, that before he left with 
Davie, the factor and his sister had gone together for a 
holiday; had this been contrived? 

He mounted the hill and drew near the castle. A ter- 
rible gloom fell upon him; there was not a light in the 
sullen pile! It was darksome even to terror! He went to 
the main entrance, and rang the great bell as loud as he 
could ring it, but there was no answer to the summons, 
which echoed and yelled horribly, as if the house were 
actually empty. He rang again, and again came the hor- 
rible yelling echo, but no more answer than if it had been 
a mausoleum. He had been told what to expect, yet his 
heart sunk within him. Once more he rang and waited; 
but there was no sound of hearing. The place grew terri- 
ble to him. But his mother had sent him there, and into 
it he must go! He must at least learn whether it was in- 
deed abandoned! There was false play ! he kept repeating 
to himself; but what was it? where and how was it to be 
met! 

As to getting into the house there was no difficulty. 
He had but to climb two walls to get to the door of Baliol’s 
Tower, and the key of that he always carried. If he had 
not had it, he would yet soon have got in; he knew the 
place better than any one else about it. Happily he had 
left the door locked when he went away, else probably 
they would have secured it otherwise. He entered softly, 
and, with a strange feeling of dread, went winding up the 
stair to his room — slowly, because he did not yet know at 
all what he was to do. If there were no false play, surely 
at least Mrs. Brookes would have written to tell him they 
were going. If only he could learn where she was! Be- 
fore he reached the top he found himself very weary. He 
staggered in, and fell on his bed in the dark. 

But he could not rest. The air seemed stifling. The 


DONAL GRANT, 


889 


storm had lulled, but the atmosphere was full of thunder. 
He got up and opened the window. A little breath came 
in and revived him; then came a little wind, and in the 
wind the moan of its harp. It woke many memories. 
There again was the lightning! The thunder broke with 
a great bellowing roar among the roofs and chimneys. It 
was to his mind! He went out on the roof, and mechan- 
ically took his way toward the nest of the music. At the 
base of the chimneys he sat down, and stared into the 
darkness. The lightning came; he saw the sea lie watch- 
ing like a perfect peace to take up drift souls, and the 
land bordering it like a waste of dread; then the darkness 
swallowed both; and the thunder came so loud that it not 
only deafened but seemed to blind him beyond the dark- 
ness, that his brain turned to a lump of clay. Then came 
a silence, and the silence was like a deeper deafness. But 
from the deafness burst and trickled a faint doubtful 
stream; could it be a voice, calling, calling, from a great 
distance? Was he the fool of weariness and excitement, 
or did he actually hear his own name? Whose voice could 
it be but Lady Arctura’s, calling to him from the spirit 
world! They had killed her, and she was calling to let 
him know she was in the land of liberty! With that came 
another flash and another roar of thunder — and there was 
the voice again: “Mr. Grant! Mr. Grant! come, come! 
You promised!” Did he actually hear the words? They 
sounded so far away that it seemed as if he ought not to 
hear them. But could the voice be from the spirit-land? 
Would she claim his promise thence, tempting him thither? 
She would not. And she knew he would not go before 
his hour, if all the spirits on the other side were calling 
him. But he had heard of voices from far away, while 
those who called were yet in the body. If she would but 
say whither, he would follow her that moment! Once 
more it came, but very faint; he could not tell what it 
said. A wail of the ghost-music followed close. God in 
heaven! could she be down in the chapel? He sprung to 
his feet. With superhuman energy he leaped up and 
caught the edge of the cleft, drew himself up till his 
mouth reached it, and cried aloud, “Lady Arctura!” 

There came no answer. 

“I am stupid as death !” he said to himself: “I have 
let her call me in vain!” 


390 


DONAL GRANT. 


“I am coming!” he cried again, revived with sudden 
joy. He dropped on the roof, and sped down the stair to 
the door that opeued on the second floor. All was dark 
as underground, but he knew the way so well he needed 
but a little guidance from his hands. He hurried to 
Lady Arctura’s chamber, and the spot where the press 
stood, ready with one shove to send it yards out of his 
way. There was no press there! nothing but a smooth, 
cold, damp wall! His heart sank within him. Was he 
in a terrible dream? No, no! he had but made a mistake 
— had trusted too much to his knowledge of the house, 
and was not where he thought he was! He struck a 
light. Alas! alas! he was where he had intended! It 
was her room! there was the wardrobe, but nearer the 
door! Where it had stood was no recess — nothing but a 
great patch of fresh plaster! It was no dream, but a true 
horror! 

Instinctively clutching his skene dhu, he darted to the 
great stair. 

It must have been the voice of Arctura he had heard! 
She was walled up in the chapel! 

Down the stair, with swift, noiseless foot he sped, and 
stopped at the door of the half-way room. It was locked! 

There was but one way left! To the foot of the stair 
he shot. Good heavens! if that way also should have 
been known to the earl! He crept through the little door 
underneath the stair, feeling with his hands ere his body 
was through; the arch was open! In an instant he was 
in the crypt. 

But now to get up through the opening into the passage 
above — stopped with a heavy slab! He sprung at the 
steep slope of the window-sill, but there was no hold, and 
as often as he sprung he slipped down again. He tried 
and tried until he was worn out and almost in despair. 
She might be dying! he was close to her! he could not 
reach her! He stood still for a moment to think. To his 
mind came the word, “He that beheveth shall not make 
haste.” He thought with himself, “God cannot help 
men with wisdom when their minds are in too great a 
tumult to hear what he says!” He tried to lift up his 
heart and make a silence in his soul. 

As he stood he seemed to see, through the dark, the 
gloomy place as it first appeared when he threw in the 


DONAL GRANT. 


391 


lighted letter. All at once he started from his quiescence, 
on his hands and knees, and crawled until he found the 
flat stone like a gravestone. Out came his knife, and he 
dug away the earth at one end, until he could get both 
hands under it. Then he heaved it from the floor, and, 
shifting it along, got it under the opening in the wall. 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 

A MORAL FUNGUS. 

Spiritual insanity, cupidity, cruelty, and possibly im- 
mediate demonia'cal temptation had long been working in 
and on a mind that had now ceased almost to distinguish 
between the real and the unreal. Every man who bends 
the energies of an immortal spirit to further the ends and 
objects of his lower being fails so to distinguish; but 
with the earl the blindness had wrought outward as well 
as inwardly, so that he was even unable, during consider- 
able portions of his life, to tell whether things took place 
outside or inside him. Now did this trouble him — he was 
past caring. He would argue that what equally affected 
him had an equal right to be by him regarded as existent. 
He paid no' heed to the different natures of the two kinds 
of existence, their different laws, and the different de- 
mands they made upon the two consciousnesses; he had, 
in fact, by a long course of disobedience growing to utter 
disuse of conscience, arrived nearly at non-individuality. 
In regard to what was outside him he was but a mirror, 
in regard to what was inside him a mere vessel of imper- 
fectly interacting forces. And now his capacities and 
incapacities together had culminated in a hideous plot, in 
which it would be hard to say whether the folly, the 
crime, or the cunning predominated: he had made up his 
mind that, if the daughter of his brother refused to wed 
her cousin, and so carry out what he asserted to have been 
the declared wish of her father, she should go after her 
father, and leave her property to the next heir, so that if 
not in one way then in another the law of nature plight 
be fulfilled, and title and property united without the in- 
tervention of a marriage. As to any evil that therein 
might be imagined to befall his niece, he quoted the 


392 


DONAL GRANT. 


words of Hamlet: “Since no man has ought of what he 
leaves, what is’t to leave betimes?” she would be no 
worse than she must have been when the few years of her 
natural pilgrimage were of necessity over; the difference 
to her was not worth thinking of beside the difference to 
the family! At the same time perhaps a scare might 
serve, and she would consent to marry Forgue to escape a 
frightful end! 

The moment Donal was gone, he sent Forgue to Lon- 
don, and set himself to overcome the distrust of nim 
which he could not but see had for some time been grow- 
ing in her. With the sweet prejudices of a loving nature 
to assist him, he soon prevailed so far that, without much 
entreaty, she consented to accompany him to London — for 
a month or so, he said, while Davie was gone. The pro^ 
posal had charms for her: she had been therewith her 
father when a mere child, and never since. She wrote to 
Donal to let him know: how it was that her letter never 
reached him it is hardly needful to inquire. 

The earl, in order, he said, to show his recognition of 
her sweet compliance, made arrangements for posting it 
all the way. He would take her by the road he used to 
travel himself when he was a young man: she should 
judge whether more had not been lost than gained by 
rapidity! Whatever shortened any natural process, he 
said, simply shortened life itself. Simmons should go 
before, and find a suitable place for them. 

They were hardly gone when Mrs. Brookes received a 
letter pretendedly from the clergyman of the parish, in a 
remote part of the south, where her mother, now a very 
old woman, lived, saying she was at the point of death, 
and could not die in peace without seeing her daughter. 
She went at once. 

The scheme was a madman’s, excellently contrived for 
the instant object, but with no outlook for immediately 
resulting perils. 

After the first night on the road, he turned across coun- 
try, and a little toward home; after the next night, he 
drove straight back, but as it was by a different road, 
Arctura suspected nothing. When they came within a 
few hours of the castle, they stopped at a little inn for 
tea; there he contrived to give her a certain dose. At 
the next place where they stopped he represented her as 


DONAL GRANT. 


393 


his daughter taken suddenly ill: he must go straight 
home with her, however late they might be. Giving an 
imaginary name to their destination, and keeping on the 
last post-boy, who knew nothing of the country, he di- 
rected him so as completely to bewilder him, with the 
result that he set them down at the castle supposing it a 
different place, and in a different part of the country. 
The thing was after the earl's own heart; he delighted in 
making a fool of a fellow-mortal. He sent him away so 
as not to enter the town: it was of importance his return 
should not be known. 

It is a marvel he could effect what followed ; but he 
had the remnants of great strength, and when under in- 
fluences he knew too well how to manage, was for the 
time almost as powerful as ever; he got his victim to his 
room on the stair, and thence through the oak door. 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

THE PORCH OF HADES. 

When - Arctura woke from her unnatural sleep, she lay 
awhile without thought, then began to localize herself. 
The last place she recalled was the inn where they had 
tea: she must have been there taken ill, she thought, and 
was now in a room of the same. It was quite dark: they 
might have left a light by her! She lay comfortably 
enough, but had a suspicion that the place was not over 
clean, and was glad to find herself not undressed. She 
turned on her side: something pulled her by the wrist. 
She must have a bracelet on, and it was entangled in the 
coverlet! She tried to unclasp it, but could not: which 
of her bracelets could it be? There was something at- 
tached to it — a chain — a thick chain! How odd! What 
could it mean? She lay quiet, slowly waking to fuller 
consciousness. Was there not a strange air, a dull odor 
in the room? Undefined as it was, she had smelt it be- 
fore, and not long since! It was the smell of the lost 
chapel! But that was at home in the castle! she had left 
it two days before! Was she going out of her mind? 

The dew of agony burst from her forehead. She would 
have started up, but was pulled hard by the wrist. She 


394 


DONAL GRANT. 


cried on God. Yes, she was lying on the very spot where 
that heap of woman-dust had lain! she was manacled with 
the same ring from which that woman’s arm had wasted 
— the decay of centuries her slow redeemer! Her being 
recoiled so wildly from the horror that for a moment she 
seemed on the edge of madness. But madness is not the 
sole refuge from terror! Where the door of the spirit has 
once been opened wide to God, there is he, the present 
help in time of trouble! With him in the house it is not 
only that we need fear nothing, but that is there which in 
its own being and nature casts out fear. God and fear 
cannot be together. It is a God far off that causes fear. 
“In thy presence is fullness of joy.” Such a sense of ab- 
solute helplessness overwhelmed Arctura that she felt 
awake in her an endless claim upon the protection of her 
original, the source of her being. And what sooner would 
any father have of his children than action on such claim? 
God is always calling us as his children, and when we call 
him as our father, then, and not till then, does he begin 
to be satisfied. And with that there fell upon Arctura a 
kind of sleep, which yet was not sleep; it was a repose 
such as perhaps is the sleep of a spirit. 

Again the external began to intrude. She pictured to 
herself what the darkness was hiding. Her feelings when 
first she came down into the place returned on her mem- 
ory. The tide of terror began again to rise. It rose and 
rose, and threatened to become monstrous. She reasoned 
with herself: had she not been brought in safety through 
its first and most dangerous inroad? But reason could 
not outface terror. It was fear, the most terrible of all 
terrors, that she feared. Then again woke her faith: if 
the night hideth not from him, neither does the darkness 
of fear! 

It began to thunder, first with a low distant muttering 
roll, then with a loud and near bellowing. Was it God 
coming to her? Some are strangely terrified at thunder; 
Arctura had the child’s feeling that it was God that thun- 
dered; it comforted her as with the assurance that God 
was near. As she lay and heard the great organ of the 
heavens, its voice seemed to grow articulate; God was 
calling to her, and saying, “Here I am, my child! be not 
afraid!” 

Then she began to reason with herself that the worst 


DONAL GRANT. 


395 


that could happen to her was to lie there till she died of 
hunger, and that could not he so very bad! And there- 
with across the muttering thunder came a wail of the 
ghost-music. She started! had she not heard it a hun- 
dred times before, as she lay there in the dark alone? 
Was she only now for the first time waking up to it — she, 
the lady they had shut up there to die — where she had 
lain for ages, with every now and then that sound of the 
angels singing, far above her in the blue sky? 

She was beginning to wander. She reasoned with her- 
self, and dismissed the fancy; but it came and came 
again, mingled with real memories, mostly of the roof, 
and Donal. 

By and by she fell asleep, and woke in a terror which 
seemed to have been growing in her sleep. She sat up, 
and stared into the dark. From where stood the altar 
seemed to rise and approach her a form of deeper dark- 
ness. She heard nothing, saw nothing, but something 
was there. It came nearer. It was but a fancy; she 
knew it; but the fancy assumed to be; the moment she 
gave way and acknowledged it, that moment it would 
have the reality it had been waiting for, and clasp her in its 
skeleton-arms! She cried aloud, but it only came nearer; 
it was about to seize her! 

A sudden, divine change! her fear was gone and in its 
place a sense of absolute safety; there was nothing in all 
the universe to be afraid of! It was a night of June, 
with roses, roses everywhere! Glory be to the Father! 
But how was it? Had he sent her mother to think her 
full of roses? Why her mother? God himself is the 
heart of every rose that ever bloomed! She would have 
sung aloud for joy, but no voice came; she could not utter 
a sound. What a thing this would be to tell Donal Grant! 
This poor woman cried, and God heard her, and saved her 
out of all her distresses! The father had come to his 
child! The cry had gone from her heart into his! 

If she died there, would Donal come one day and find 
her? No! No! She would speak to him in a dream, 
and beg him not to go near the place! She would not 
have him see her lie like that he and she standing together 
had there looked upon! 

With that came DonaFs voice, floated and rolled in 
music and thunder. It came from far away; she did not 


396 


DONAL GRANT. 


know whether she fancied or really heard it. She would 
have responded with a great cry, but her voice vanished 
in her throat. Her joy was such that she remembered 
nothing more. 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 

THE ANGEL OF THE LORD. 

Standing upon the edge of the stone leaned against 
the wall, Donal seized the edge of the slab which crossed 
the opening near the top, and drew himself up into the 
sloping window-sill. Pressing with all his might against 
the sides of the window, he succeeded at last in pushing 
up the slab so far as to get a hold with one hand on the 
next to it. Then slowly turning himself on his side, 
while the whole weight of the stone rested on his fingers, 
he got the other hand also through the crack. This 
effected, he hauled and pushed himself up with his whole 
force, careless of what might happen to his head. The 
top of it came bang against the stone, and lifted it so far 
that he got head and neck through. The thing was done! 
With one more herculean lift of his body and the stone 
together, like a man rising from the dead, he rose from 
the crypt into the passage. 

But tne door of the chapel would not yield to a gentle 
push. 

“My lady,” he cried, “don’t be afraid. I must make a 
noise. It’s only Donal Grant! I’m going to drive the 
door open.” 

She heard the words! They woke her from her swoon 
of joy. “Only Donal Grant!” What less of an only 
could there be in the world for her? Was he not the 
messenger who raised the dead? 

She tried to speak, but not a word would come. Donal 
drew back a pace, and sent such a shoulder against the 
door that it flew to the wall, then fell with a great crash 
on the floor. 

“Where are you, my lady?” he cried. 

But still she could not speak. 

He began feeling about. 

“Not on that terrible bed!” she heard him murmur. 

Fear lest in the darkness he should not find her, gave 
her back her voice. 


DONAL GRANT. 


397 


“I don’t mind it now!” she said feebly. 

“Thank God!” cried Donal; “I’ve found you at last!” 

Worn out, he sank on his knees, with his head on the 
bed, and fell a sobbing like a child. 

She would have put out her hand through the darkness 
to find him, but the chain checked it. He heard the 
rattle of it, and understood. 

“Chained, too, my dove!” he said, but in Gaelic. 

His weakness was over. He thanked God, and took 
courage. New life rushed through every vein. He rose 
to his feet in conscious strength. 

“Can you strike a light, and let me see you, Donal?” 
said Arctura. Then first she called him by his Christian 
name: it had been so often in her heart if not on her lips 
that night. 

The dim light wasted the darkness of the long-buried 
place, and for a moment they looked at each other. She 
was not so changed as Donal had feared to find her — 
hardly so changed to him as he was to her. Terrible as 
had been her trial, it had not lasted long, and had been 
succeeded by a heavenly joy. She was paler than usual, 
yet there was a rosy flush over her beautiful face. Her 
hand was stretched toward him, its wrist clasped by the 
rusty ring, and tightening the chain that held it to the 
post. 

“How pale and tired you look!” she said. 

“I am a little tired,” he answered. “I came almost 
without stopping. My mother sent me. , She said I must 
come, but she did not tell me why.” 

“It was God sent you,” said Arctura. 

Then she briefly told him what she knew of her own 
story. 

“How did he get the ring on to your wrist?” said 
Donal. 

He looked closer and saw that her hand was swollen and 
the skin abraded. 

“He forced it on!” she said. 

“How it must hurt you!” 

“It does hurt now you speak of it,” she replied. “I 
did not notice it before. Do you suppose he left me here 
to die?” 

“Who can tell!” returned Donal. “I suspect he is 
more of a madman than we knew. I wonder if a soul can 


398 


DONAL GRANT. 


be mad. Yes; the devil must be mad with self-worship. 
Hell is the great madhouse of creation.’’ 

“Take me away,” she said. 

“I must first get you free,” answered Donal. 

She heard him rise. 

“You are not going to leave me?” she said. 

“Only to get a tool or two.” 

“And after that?” she said. 

“Not until you wish me,” he answered. “I am your 
servant now — his no more.” 


CHAPTER LXXVII. 

THE ANGEL OF THE DEVIL. 

There came a great burst of thunder. It was the last 
of the storm. It bellowed and shuddered, went, and came 
rolling up again. It died away at last in the great dis- 
tance, with alow continuous rumbling as if it would never 
cease. The silence that followed was like the Egyptian 
darkness; it might be felt. 

Out of the tense heart of the silence came a faint sound. 
It came again and again, at regular intervals. 

“That is my uncle’s step,” said Arctura in a scared 
whisper through the dark. 

It was plainly a slow step — far off, but approaching. 

“I wonder if he has a light,” she added hurriedly. 
“He often goes in the dark without one. If he has you 
must get behind the altar.” 

“Do not speak a word,” said Donal; “let him think 
you are asleep. If he has no light, I will stand so that he 
cannot come near the bed without coming against me. 
Do not be afraid; he shall not touch you.” 

The steps were coming nearer all the time. A door 
opened and shut. Then they were loud — they were com- 
ing along the gallery! They ceased. He was standing 
up there in the thick darkness! 

“‘Arctura!” said a deep, awful voice. 

It was that of the earl. Arctura made no answer. 

“Dead of fright!” muttered the voice. “All goes well. 
I will go down and see. She might have proved obstinate 
as the boys’ mother.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


399 


Again the steps began. They were coming down the 
stair. The door at the foot of it opened. The earl en- 
tered a step or two, then stopped. Through the darkness 
Donal seemed to know exactly where he stood. He knew 
also that he was fumbling for a match, and watched in- 
tently for the first spark. There came a sputter and a 
gleam, and the match failed. Ere he could try another, 
Donal made a swift blow at his arm. It knocked the box 
from his hand. 

“Ha!” he cried, and there was terror in the cry, “she 
strikes at me through the dark!” 

Donal kept very still. Arctura kept as still as he. The 
earl turned and went away. 

“I will bring a candle!” he muttered. 

“Now, my lady, we must make haste,” said Donal. 
“Do you mind being left while I fetch my tools?” 

“No — but make haste,” she answered. 

“I shall be back before him,” he returned. 

“Be careful you do not meet him,” said Arctura. 

There was no difficulty now, either in going or return- 
ing. He sped, and in a space that even to Arctura seemed 
short, was back. There was no time to use the file; he 
attacked the staple, and drew it from the bed-post, then 
wound the chain about her arm, and tied it there. 

He had already made up his mind what to do with her. 
He had been inclined to carry her away from the house: 
Doory would take care of her. But he saw that to leave 
the enemy in possession would be to yield him an advan- 
tage. Awkward things might result from it! The tongues 
of inventive ignorance and stupidity would wag wildly. 
He would take her to her room, and there watch her as 
he would the pearl of price. 

“There! you are free, my lady,” he said. “Now 
come.” 

He took her hands, and she raised herself wearily. 

“The air is so stifling!” she said. 

“We shall soon have better,” answered Donal. 

“Shall we go on the roof?” she said, like one talking 
in her sleep. 

“I will take you to your own room,” replied Donal. 
“But I will not leave you,” he added quickly, seeing a 
look of anxiety cloud her face, “so long as your uncle is 
in the house,” 


400 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Take me where yon will,” rejoined Arctura. 

There was no way but through the crypt; she followed 
him without hesitation. They crept through the little 
closet under the stair, and were in the hall of the castle. 

As they went softly up the stair Dona! had an idea. 

“He is not back yet!” he said: “we will take the key 
from the oak door; he will think he has mislaid it, and 
will not find out that you are gone. I wonder what he 
will do!” 

Cautiously listening, to be sure the earl was not there, 
he ran to the oak door, locked it, and brought away the 
key. Then they went to the room Arctura had last occu- 
pied. 

The door was ajar; there was a light in the room. 
They went softly and peeped in. The earl was there, 
turning over the contents of her writing-desk. 

“He will find nothing,” she whispered with a smile. 
Donal led her away. 

“We will go to your old room,” he said. “The whole 
recess is built up with stone and lime; he cannot come 
near you that way.” 

She made no objection. Donal secured the doors, 
lighted a fire, and went to look for food. They had 
agreed upon a certain knock without which she was to 
open to none. 

While she was yet changing the garments in which she 
had lain on the terrible bed, she heard the eari go by, and 
the door of his room close. Apparently he had concluded 
to let her pass the night without another visit ; he had him- 
self had a bad fright, and had probably not got over it. 
A little longer and she heard Donal’s gentle signal at the 
door of the sitting-room. He had brought some biscuits 
and a little wine in the bottom of a decanter from the 
housekeeper’s room; there was literally nothing in the 
larder, he said. 

They sat down and ate the biscuits. Donal told his 
adventures. They agreed that she must write to the fac- 
tor to come home at once, and bring his sister. Then 
Donal set to with his file upon the ring; her hand was 
much too swollen to admit of its being removed as it had 
been put on. It was not easy to cut it, partly from the 
constant danger of hurting her swollen hand, partly that 
the rust filled and blunted fce file, 


DONAL GRANT. 


401 


“There!” he said at last, “you are free! And now, 
my lady, you must take some rest. The door to the pas- 
sage is secure. Lock this one inside and I will draw the 
sofa across it outside; if he come wandering in the night, 
and get into this room, he will not reach your door.” 

Weary as he was, Donal could not sleep much. In the 
middle of the night he heard the earl’s door open, and 
watched and followed him. He went to the oak door, 
and tried in vain to open it. 

“She ha3 taken it!” he muttered, in what seemed to 
Donal an awe- struck voice. 

All night long he roamed the house, a spirit grievously 
tormented. In the gray of the morning, having perhaps 
persuaded himself that the whole affair was a trick of his 
imagination, he went back to his room. 

In the morning Donal left the house, having first called 
to Arctura and warned her to lock the door of the sitting- 
room the moment he was gone. He ran all the way down 
to the inn, paid his bill, bought some things in the town 
for their breakfast, and taking the mare rode up to the 
castle and rang the bell. No notice was taken. He went 
and put up his animal, then let himself into the house by 
Baliol’s Tower, and began to sing. So singing he went 
up the great stair, and into and along the corridor where 
the earl lay. 

The singing roused him, and brought him to his door 
in a rage. But the moment he saw Donal his countenance 
fell. 

“What the devil are you doing here?” he said. 

“They told me in the town you were in England, my 
lord!” 

“I wrote to you,” said the earl, “that we were gone to 
London, and that you need be in no haste to return. I 
trust you have not brought Davie with you?” 

“I have not, my lord.” 

“Then make what haste back to him you can. He 
must not bo alone with bumpkins! You may stay there 
with him till I send for you — only mind you go on with 
your studies. Now be off. I am at home but for a few 
hours on business and leave again by the afternoon coach!” 

“I do not go, my lord, until I have seen my mistress.” 

“Your mistress! Who, pray, is your mistress?” 

“X am no longer in your service, my lord,” 


402 


DONAL GRANT. 


“Then what in the name of God have you done with 
my son?” 

“In good time, my lord, when you have told me where 
my mistress is! I am in this house as Lady Arctura’s 
servant; and I desire to know where I shall find her.” 

“In London.” 

“What address, please your lordship? I will wait her 
orders here.” 

“You will leave this house at once,” said the earl. “I 
will not have you here in both her ladyship’s absence and 
my own.” 

“My lord, I am not ignorant how things stand; I am 
in Lady Arctura’s house; and here I remain till I receive 
her commands.” 

“Very well! By all means!” 

“I ask you again for her address, my lord.” 

“Find it for yourself. You will not obey my orders: 
am I to obey yours?” 

lie turned on his heel, and flung to his door. 

Donal went to Lady Arctura. She was in the sitting- 
room, anxiously waiting his return. She had heard their 
voices, but nothing that passed. He told her what he 
had done; then produced his provisions, and together 
they prepared their breakfast. By and by they heard the 
earl come from his room, go here and there through the 
still house, and return to his apartment. 

In the afternoon he left the house. They watched him 
away — ill able, apparently, even to crawl along. He went 
down the hill, nor once lifted his head. They turned and 
looked at each other. Profound pity for the wretched 
old man was the feeling of both. It was followed by one 
of intense relief and liberty. 

“You would like to be rid of me now, my lady,” said 
Donal; “but I don’t see how I can leave you. Shall I 
go and fetch Miss Carmichael?” 

“No, certainly,” answered Arctura. “I cannot apply 
to her.” 

“It would be a pity to lose the advantage of your uncle’s 
not knowing what has become of you.” 

“I wonder what he will do next! If I were to die now, 
the property would be his, and then Forgue’s!” 

“You can will it away, I suppose, my lady!” answered 

Donal. 


DONAL GRANT. 


403 


Arctura stood thoughtful. 

“Is Forgue a bad man, Mr. Grant?” 

“I dare not trust him,” answered Donal. 

“Do you think he had any knowledge of this plot of his 
father’s?” 

“I cannot tell. I do not believe he would have left you 
to die in the chapel.” 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

RESTORATION. 

The same afternoon, while Donal was reading to Arc- 
tura in the library, there came a loud ringing of the door- 
bell. Donal ran to see, and to his great delight there 
was Mistress Brookes, half wild with anxious terror. 

“Is my leddy safe?” she cried — then clasped Donal in 
her arms and embraced him as if he had been her son. 

From the moment she discovered herself fooled, she 
had been imagining all manner of terrible things — yet 
none so terrible as the truth. There was no end to her 
objurgations, exclamations, anathemas, and interjections, 

“Now I can leave you in peace, my lady!” said Donal, 
who had not resumed” his seat. 

“Noo ye can bide whaur ye are, an’ be thankfu’!” said 
Mistress Brookes. “Wha daur meddle wi’ ye, an’ me i’ 
the hoose! An' wha kens what the mad yerl, for mad I s’ 
uphaud him, an’ fit only to be lockit up — wha kens what 
he may do neist! Maister Grant, I cannot lat ye oot o’ 
the hoose.” 

“I was only going as far as Mistress Comin’s,” replied 
Donal. 

“Weel, ye can gang; but min’ ye’re hame i’ gude time!” 

“I thought of putting up there, but I will do as my 
lady pleases.” 

“Come home,” said Arctura. 

Doual went, and the first person he saw when he entered 
the house was Eppy. She turned instantly away, and left 
she room; he could not help seeing why. 

The old woman welcomed him with her usual cordiality, 
but not her usual cheerfulness; he had scarcely noted 
since her husband’s death any change in her manner till 
now; she looked weary of the world. 


404 


DONAL GRANT. 


She sat down, smoothed her apron on her knees, gave 
him one glance in the face, then looked down at her 
hands, and said nothing. 

“I ken what ails ye, Doory,” said Donal; “but i’ the 
name o’ him ’at’s awa’, hearken til me. The lass is no 
lost, naither is the Lord asleep. Yer lamb’s been sair 
misguidit, sair pluckit o’ her bonny woo’, but gien for 
that she baud the closer by the Lord’s flock, she’ll ken it 
wasna for want o’ his care the tod got a grup o’ her. It’s > 
a terrible pity for the bonny cratur, disgracin’ them ’at 
aucht her! What for winna yoong fowk believe them ’at 
speyks true, but wull believe them ’at tells them little but 
lees! Still, it’s no as gien she had been stealin’! She’s 
wrangt' her puir sel’, an’ she’s wrangt ns a’, an’ she’s 
wrangt the Lord; but for a’ that ye canua luik doon upon 
her as upo’ the man ’at’s grown rich at the cost o’ his 
neebours. There’s mony a gran’ prood leddy ’ill hae to 
stan’ aside to lat Eppy pass up, whan we’re ’afore the 
richteous judge.” 

“Eh, but ye speyk like my Anerew!” cried the poor 
woman, wiping her old eyes with her rough apron. “I s’, 
do what I can for her; but there’s no hidin’ o’ ’t!” 

“Hidin’ o’ ’t!” cried Donal. “The Lord forbid’ Sic 
things are no to be hidden! Sae lang ’s she’s i’ the warl’, 
the thing has to be kenned o’ a’ ’at come nigh her. She 
maun beir her burden, puir lass! The Lord he’ll lichten 
’t til her, but he’ll hae naething smugglet up. That’s no 
the w’y o’ his kingdom! I suppose there’s nae doobt 
wha?” 

“Nane. The Lord forbid!” 

Two days after, Mr. Graeme and his sister returned, 
and at Lady Arctura’s request took up their abode at the 
castle. She told them that of late she had become con- 
vinced her uncle was no longer capable of attending to 
her affairs; that he was gone to London; that she had 
gone away with him, and was supposed to be with him 
still, though she had returned, and he did not know where 
she was. She did not wish him to know, but desired for 
the present to remain concealed. She had her reasons; 
and requested therefore as a personal favor that they 
would not once or to any one allude to her being at the 
castle. Mr. Graeme would in the meantime be so good 
as make himself acquainted, so far as possible, with the 
state of affairs between her and her uncle. 


DONAL GRANT. 


405 


In the course of the investigations thereupon following, 
it became clear that a large portion of the moneys of the 
estate received by his lordship were nowise accounted for. 
Lady Arctura directed that further inquiry should in the 
meantime be stayed, but that no more money should be 
handed over to him. 

For some time the factor heard nothing from his lord- 
ship. At length came instructions as to the forwarding 
of money. Forgue writing and his father signing. Mr. 
Graeme replied, excusing himself as he could, but sending 
no money. They wrote again. Again he excused him- 
self. The earl threatened. Mr. Graeme took no heed. 
His lordship continued to demand and threaten, but 
neither be nor his son appeared. The factor at length 
wrote that he would pay no money but to Lady Arctura. 
The earl himself wrote in reply, saying — had he been out 
of the country that he did not know she was dead and six 
weeks in her grave? Again the factor did not reply. 

Donal rode back to Glashgar, and brought Davie home. 
Lessons were resumed, and Arctura took her full share in 
them. 

Soon all about the castle was bustle and labor — masons 
and carpenters busy from morning to night. The wall 
that masked the windows of the chapel was pulled down; 
the windows, of stained glass, with never a crack, were 
cleaned; the passage under them was opened to the great 
stair; Lady Arctura had a small sweet-toned organ built 
in the little gallery, and the mural stair from her own 
room opened again, that she might go down when she 
pleased to play on it — sometimes, in southeasterly winds, 
to listen to the aeolian harp dreaming out the music of 
the spheres. 

In the process of removing the bed, much of it crum- 
bled to dust. The carved tester and back were set up, 
the one over the great chimney-piece in the hall, the other 
over that in Arctura’s room. The altar was replaced 
where the bed had been. The story of the finding of the 
lost chapel was written by Donal, and placed by Arctura 
among the records of the family. 

But it soon became evident that what she had passed 
-through had exercised a hurtful influence on Lady Arc- 
tura’s health. She was almost always happy, but her 
strength at times would suddenly desert her. Both Donal 
and Mistress Brookes regarded her with some anxiety. 


406 


DONAL GRANT. 


Her organ, to which she gave more labor than she was 
quite equal to, was now one of her main delights. Often 
would its chords be heard creeping through the long ducts 
and passages of the castle: either for a small instrument 
its tone was peculiarly penetrating, or the chapel was the 
center of the system of the house. On the roof would 
Donal often sit listening to the sounds that rose through 
the shaft — airs and harmonies freed by her worshiping 
fingers — rejoicing to think how her spirit was following 
the sounds, guided by them in lovely search after her 
native country. 

One day she went on playing till she forgot everything 
but her music, and almost unconsciously began to sing 
“The Lord is mindful of his own.’’ She was unaware 
that she had two listeners — one on the roof above, one in 
the chapel below. 

When twelve months were come and gone since his de- 
parture, the earl one bright morning approached the door 
of the castle, half-doubting, half-believing it his own; he 
was determined on dismissing the factor after rigorous 
examination of his accounts; and he wanted to see Davie. 
He had driven to the stables, and thence walked out on 
the uppermost terrace, passing the chapel without observ- 
ing its unmasked windows. The great door was standing 
open: he went in, and up the stair, haunted by sounds of 
music he had been hearing ever since he stepped on the 
terrace. 

But on the stair was a door he had never seen! Who 
dared make changes in his house? The thing was bewil- 
dering! But he was accustomed to be bewildered. 

He opened the door— -plainly a new one, and entered a 
gloomy little passage, lighted from a small aperture unfit 
to be called a window. The under side of the bare steps 
of a narrow stone stair was above his head. Had he or 
had he not ever seen the place before? On the right was 
a door. He went to it, opened it, and the hitherto muffled 
music burst loud on his ear. He started back in dismal 
apprehension— there was the chapel, wide open to the eye 
of day — clear and clean— gone the hideous bed! gone the 
damp and the dust! while the fresh air trembled with the 
organ breath rushing and rippling through it, and setting 
it in sweetest turmoil! He had never had such a peculiar 
experience. He had often doubted whether things were 


DONAL GRANT. 


407 


or were not projections from his own brain ; he moved 
and acted in a world of subdued fact and enhanced fiction; 
he knew that sometimes he could not tell the one from 
the other; but never had he had the apparently real and 
the actually unreal brought so much face to face with each 
other! Everything was as clear to his eyes as in their 
prime of vision, and yet there could be no reality in what 
he saw. 

Ever since he left the castle he had been greatly uncer- 
tain whether the things that seemed to have taken place 
there had really taken place. He got himself in doubt 
about them the moment he failed to find the key of the 
oak door. When he asked himself what then could have 
become of his niece, he would reply that doubtless she 
was all right: she did not want to marry Eorgue, and had 
slipped out of the way; she had never cared about the 
property. To have their own will was all women cared 
about! Would his factor otherwise have dared such liber- 
ties with him, the lady’s guardian? He had not yet ren- 
dered his accounts, or yielded his stewardship. When 
she died the property would be his! if she was dead, it 
was his! She would never have dreamed of willing it 
away from him! She did not know she could: how should 
she? girls never thought about such things! Besides, she 
would not have the heart: he had loved her as his own 
flesh and blood! 

At intervals, nevertheless, he was assailed, at times 
overwhelmed, by the partial conviction that he had 
starved her to death in the chapel. Then he was tor- 
mented as with all the furies of hell. In his night visions 
he would see her lie wasting, hear her moaning, and cry- 
ing in vain for help: the hardest heart is yet at the mercy 
of a roused imagination. He saw her body in its pro- 
gressive stages of decay as the weeks passed, and longed 
for the process to be over, that he might go back, and 
pretending to have just found the lost room, carry it away 
and have it honorably buried! Should he take it for 
granted that it had lain there for centuries, or suggest it 
must be Lady Arctura — that she had got shut up there, 
like the bride in the chest? If he could but find an old 
spring lock to put on the door! But people were so 
plaguy sharp nowadays! They found out everything — he 
could not afford to have everything found out! God him- 
self must not be allowed to know everything! 


408 


TONAL GRANT. 


He stood staring. As he stood and stared, his mind 
began to change: perhaps, after all, what he saw might 
be! The whole thing it had displaced must then be a 
fancy — a creation of the dreaming brain! God in heaven ! 
if it could but be proven that he had never done it! All 
the other wicked things he was, or supposed himself, guilty 
of — some of them so heavy that it had never seemed of 
the smallest use to repent of them — all the rest might be 
forgiven him! But what difference would that make to 
the fact that he had done them? He could never take 
his place as a gentleman where all was known! They 
made such a fuss about a sin or two, that a man went and 
did worse out of pure despair! 

But if he had never murdered anybody ! In that case 
he could almost consent there should be a God! he could 
almost even thank him! For what? That he was not to 
be damned for the thing he had not done — a thing he had 
had the misfortune to dream he had done — God never in- 
terfering to protect him from the horrible fancy? What 
was the good of a God that would not do that much for 
you — that left his creatures to make fools of themselves, 
and only laughed at them! Bah! There was life in the 
old dog yet! If only he knew the thing for a fancy! 

The music ceased, and the silence was a shock to him. 
Again he began to stare about him. He looked up. Be- 
fore him in the air hovered the pale face of the girl he 
had — or had not murdered! It was one of his visions — 
but not therefore more unreal than any other appearance: 
she came from the world of his imagination — so real to 
him that in expectant moods it was the world into which 
he was to step the moment he left the body. She looked 
sweetly at him! She was come to forgive his sins! Was 
it then true? Was there no sin of murder on his soul? 
Was she there to assure him that he might yet hope for 
the world to come? He stretched out his arms to her. 
She turned away. He thought she had vanished. The 
next moment she was in the chapel, but he did not hear 
her, and stood gazing up. She threw her .arms around 
him. The contact of the material startled him with such 
a revulsion that he uttered a cry, staggered back, and 
stood looking at her in worse perplexity still. He had 
done the awful thing, yet had not done it! He stood as 
one bound to know the thing that could not be. 


DONAL GRANT. 


409 


“Don’t be frightened, uncle,” said Arctura. “I am 
not dead. The sepulcher is the only resurrection-house! 
Uncle, uncle! thank God with me.” 

The earl stood motionless. Strange thoughts passed 
through him at their will. Had her presence dispelled 
darkness and death, and restored the lost chapel to the 
light of day? Had she haunted it ever since, dead yet 
alive, watching for his return to pardon him? Would his 
wife so receive him at the last with forgiveness and en- 
dearment? His eyes were fixed upon her. His lips 
moved tremulously once or twice, but no word came. He 
turned from her, glanced round the place, and said: 

“It is a great improvement!” 

I wonder how it would be with souls if they waked up 
and found all their sins but hideous dreams! How many 
would loathe the sin? How many would remain capable 
of doing all again? But few, perhaps no burdened souls 
can have any idea of the power that lies in God’s forgive- 
ness to relieve their consciousness of defilement. Those 
who say, “Even God cannot destroy the fact!” care more 
about their own cursed shame than their Father’s blessed 
truth! Such will rather excuse than confess. When a 
man heartily confesses, leaving excuse to God, the truth 
makes him free, he knows that the evil has gone from 
him, as a man knows that he is cured of his plague. 

“I did the thing,” he says, “but I could not do it now. 
I am the same, yet not the same. I confess, I would not 
hide it, but I loathe it — ten times the more that the evil 
thing was mine.” 

Had the earl been able to say thus, he would have felt 
his soul a cleansed chapel new-opened to the light and air 
— nay better — a fresh-watered garden, in which the fruits 
of the spirit had begun to grow! God’s forgiveness is as 
the burst of a spring morning into the heart of winter. 
His autumn is the paying of the uttermost farthing. To 
let us go without that would be the pardon of a demon, 
not the forgiveness of the eternally loving God. But — 
Not yet, alas, not yet! has to be said over so many souls! 

Arctura was struck dumb. She turned and walked out 
upon the great stair, her uncle following her. All the 
way up to the second floor she felt as if he were about to 
stab her in the back, but she would not look behind her. 
She went straight to her room, and heard her uncle go on 


410 


DONAL GRANT. 


to his. She rang her bell, sent for Donal, and told him 
what had passed. 

“I will go to him,” said Donal. 

Arctura said nothing more, thus leavirg the matter en- 
tirely in his hands. 

Donal found him lying on the couch. 

“My lord,” he said, “you must be aware of the reasons 
why you should not present yourself here!” 

The earl started up in one of his ready rages: they were 
real enough! With epithets of contemptuous hatred, he 
ordered Donal from the room and the house. Donal an- 
swered nothing till the rush of his wrath had abated. 

“My lord,” he said, “there is nothing I would not do 
to serve your lordship. But I have no choice but to tell 
you that if you do not walk out, you shall be expelled!” 

“Expelled, you dog!” 

“Expelled, my lord. The would-be murderer of his 
hostess must at least be put out of the house.” 

“Good heavens!” cried the earl, changing his tone 
with an attempted laugh, “has the poor, hysterical girl 
succeeded in persuading a man of your sense to believe 
her childish fancies?” 

“I believe every word my lady says, my lord. I know 
that you had nearly murdered her.” 

The earl caught up the poker and struck at his head. 
Donal avoided the blow. It fell on the marble chimney- 
piece. While his arm was yet jarred by the impact, Donal 
wrenched the poker from him. 

“My lord,” he said, “with my own hands I drew the 
staple of the chain that fastened her to the bed on which 
you left her to die! You were yet in the house when I 
did so.” 

“You damned rascal, you stole the key! If it had not 
been for that I should have gone to her again. I only 
wanted to bring her to reason!” 

“But as you had lost the key, rather than expose your 
cruelty, you went away, and left her to perish! You 
wanted her to die unless you could compel her to marry 
your son, that the title and property might go together; 
and that when with my own ears I heard your lordship 
tell that son that he had no right to any title!” 

“What a man may say in a rage goes for nothing,” 
swered the earl, sulkily rather than fiercely. 


an- 


DONAL GRANT. 


411 


“But not what a woman writes in sorrow !” rejoined 
Donal. “I know the truth from the testimony of her 
you called your wife, as well as from your own mouth!” 

“The testimony of the dead, and at second hand, will 
hardly be received in court!” returned the earl. 

“If, after your lordship’s death, the man now called 
Lord Forgue 'dares assume the title of Morven, I will pub- 
lish what I know. In view of that, your lordship had 
better furnish him with the vouchers of his mother’s mar- 
riage. My lord, I again beg you to leave the house.” 

The earl cast his eyes round the walls as if looking for 
a weapon, Donal took him by the arm. 

“There is no further room for ceremony,” he said. “I 
am sorry to be rough with your lordship, but you compel 
me. Please remember I am the younger and the stronger 
man.” 

As he spoke he let the earl fe«l the plowman’s grasp; 
it was useless to struggle. His lordship threw himself on 
the couch. 

“I will not leave the house. I am come home to die,” 
he yelled. “I’m dying now, I tell yon. I cannot leave 
the house! I have no money. Forgue has taken all.” 

“You owe a large sum to the estate,” said Donal. 

“It is lost — all lost, I tell you! I have nowhere to go 
to! I am dying!” 

He looked so utterly wretched that Donal’s heart smote 
him. He stood back a little, and gave himself time. 

“You would wish then to retire, my lord, I presume?” 
he said. 

“Immediately — to be rid of you!” the earl answered. 

“I fear, my lord, if you stay, you will not soon be rid 
of me! Have you brought Simmons with you?” 

“No, damn him! he is like all the rest of you: he has 
left me!” 

“I will help you to bed, my lord.” 

“Go about your business. I will get myself to bed.” 

“I will not leave you except in bed,” rejoined Donal 
with decision; and ringing the bell he desired the servant 
to ask Mistress Brookes to come to him. 

She came instantly. Before the earl had time even to 
look at her, Donal asked her to get his lordship’s bed 
ready — if she would not mind doing it herself, he said, he 
would help her; lie must see his lordship to bed. 


412 


DONAL GRANT. 


She looked a whole book at him, but said nothing. 
Donal returned her gaze with one of quiet confidence, 
and she understood it. What it said was, “I know what 
I am doing, Mistress Brookes. My lady must not turn 
him out. I will take care of him.” 

“What are you two whispering at there?” cried the 
earl. “Here am I at the point of death, and you will not 
even let me go to bed!” 

“Your room will be ready in a few minutes, my lord,” 
said Mrs. Brookes; and she and Donal went to work in 
earnest, but with the door open between the rooms. 

When it was ready, “Now, my lord,” said Donal, “will 
you come?” 

“When you are gone. I will have none of your cursed 
help!” 

“My lord, I am not going to leave you.” 

With much grumbling, and a very ill grace, his lord- 
ship submitted, and Donal got him to bed. 

“Now put that cabinet by me on the table,” he said. 

The cabinet was that in which he kept his drugs, and 
had not been touched since he left it. 

Donal opened the window, took up the cabinet, and 
threw it out. 

With a bellow like that of a bull, the earl sprang out of 
bed, and just as the crash came from below, ran at Donal 
where he stood shutting the window, as if he would have 
sent him after the cabinet. Donal caught him and held 
him fast. 

“My lord,” he said, “I will nurse you, serve you, do 
anything, everything for you; but for the devil I’ll be 
damned if I move hand or foot! Not one drop of hellish 
stuff shall pass your lips while I am with you!” 

“But I am dying! I shall die of the horrors!” shrieked 
the earl, struggling to get to the window, as if he might 
yet do something to save his precious extracts, tinctures, 
essences, and compounds. 

“We will send for the doctor,” said Donal. “A very 
clever young fellow has come to the town since you left: 
perhaps he can help you. I will do what I can to make 
you give your life fair play.” 

“Come, come! none of that damned rubbish! My life 
is of no end of value to me! Besides, it’s too late. If I 
were young now, with a constitution like yours, and the 


DONAL GRANT. 


413 


world before me, there might be some good in a paring or 
two of self-denial; but you wouldn’t stab your murderer 
for fear of the clasp knife closing on your hand! you 
would not lire your pistol at him for fear of its bursting 
and blowing your brains out!” 

“I have no desire to keep you alive, my lord ; but I 
would give my life to let you get some of the good of this 
world before you pass to the next. To lengthen your life 
infinitely, I would not give you a single drop of any one 
of those cursed drugs 1” 

He rang the bell again. 

“You’re a friendly fellow !” grunted his lordship, and 
went back to his bed to ponder how to gain the solace of 
his assion. 



Mrs. Brookes came. 

“Will you please send to Mr. Avory, the new surgeon,” 
said Donal, “and ask him, in my name, to come to the 
castle.” 

The earl was so ill, however, as to be doubtful, much as 
he desired them, whether, while rendering him for the 
moment less sensible to them, any of his drugs would do 
other than increase his sufferings. He lay with closed 
eyes, a strange expression of pain mingled with something 
like fear every now and then passing over his face. I 
doubt if his conscience troubled him. It is in general 
those, I think, who through comparatively small sins have 
come to see the true nature of them, whose consciences 
trouble them greatly. Those who have gone from bad to 
worse through many years of moral decay, are seldom 
troubled as other men, or have any bands in their death. 
His lordship, it is true, suffered terribly at times because 
of the things he had done; but it was through the medium 
of a roused imagination rather than a roused conscience: 
the former deals with consequences; the latter with the 
deeds themselves. 

He declared he would see no doctor but his old attend- 
ant Dowster, yet all the time was longing for the young 
man to appear: he might — who could tell? — save him 
from the dreaded jaws of death! 

He came. Donal went to him. He had summoned 
him, he said, without his lordship’s consent, but believed 
he would see him; the earl had been long in the habit of 
using narcotics and stimulants, though not alcohol, he 


414 


DONAL GRANT. 


thought; he trusted Mr. Avory would give his sanction to 
the entire disuse of them, for they were killing him, body 
and soul. 

“To give them up at once and entirely would cost him 
considerable suffering,” said the doctor. 

“He known that, and does not in the least desire to 
give them up. It is absolutely necessary he should be de- 
livered from the passion.” 

“If I am to undertake the case, it must be after my 
own judgment,” said the doctor. 

“You must undertake two things, or give up the case,” 
persisted Tonal. 

“I may as well hear what they are.” 

“One is, that you make his final deliverance from the 
habit your object; the other, that you will give no medi- 
cine into his own hands.” 

“I agree to both; but all will depend on his nurse.” 

“I will be his nurse.” 

The doctor went to see his patient. The earl gave one 
glance at him, recognized firmness, and said not a word. 
But when he would have applied to his wrist an instru- 
ment recording in curves the motions of the pulse, he 
would not consent. He would have no liberties taken 
with him, he said. 

“My lord, it is but to inquire into the action of your 
heart,” said Mr. Avory. 

“I’ll have no spying into my heart! It acts just like 
other people’s!” 

The doctor put his instrument aside, and laid his finger 
on the pulse instead: his business was to help, not to 
conquer, he said to himself; if he might not do what he 
would, he would do what he could. 

While he was with the carl, Donal found Lady Arctura, 
and told her all he had done. She thanked him for un- 
derstanding her. 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 

A SLOW TRANSITION. 

A dreary time followed. Sometimes the patient would 
lie awake half the night, howling with misery, and accus- 
ing Donal of heartless cruelty. He knew as well as he 


DONAL GRANT. 


415 


what would ease his pain and give him sleep, but not a 
finger would he move to save him ! He was taking the 
meanest of revenges! What did it matter to him what 
became of his soul! Surely it was worse to hate as he 
made him hate than to swallow any amount of narcotics! 

“I tell you, Grant,” he said once, “I was never so 
cruel to those I treated worse. There’s nothing in the 
Persian hells, which beat all the rest, to come up to what 
I go through for want of my comfort. Promise to give it 
me, and 1 will tell you where to find some.” 

As often as Donal refused he would break out in a tor- 
rent of curses, then lie still for a space. 

“How do you think you will do without it,” Donal 
once rejoined, “when you find yourself bodiless in the 
other world?” 

“I’m not there yet! When that comes, it will be under 
new conditions, if not unconditional altogether. We’ll 
take the world we have. So, my dear boy, just go and 
get me what I want. There are the keys.” 

“I dare not.” 

“You wish to kill me!” 

“I wouldn’t keep you alive to eat opium. I have other 
work than that, Not a finger would I movo to save a life 
for such a life. But I would willingly risk my own to 
make you able to do without it. There would be some 
good in that!” 

“Oh, damn your preaching!” 

But the force of the habit abated a little. Now and 
then it seemed to return as strong as ever, but the fit went 
oil again. His sufferings plainly decreased. 

The doctor, having little yet of a practice, was able to be 
with him several hours every day, so that Donal could lie 
down. As he grew better, Davie, or Mistress Brookes, or 
Lady Arctura, would sit with him. But Donal was never 
further off than the next room. The earl’s madness was 
the worst of any, a moral madness; it could not fail to 
affect the brain, but had not yet put him beyond his own 
control. Repeatedly had Donal been on the verge of 
using force to restrain him, but had not yet found himself 
absolutely compelled to do so: fearless of him, he post- 
poned it always to the very last, and the last had not yet 
arrived. 

The gentle ministrations of his niece by and by seemed 


416 


DONAL GRANT. 


to touch him. He was growing to love her a little. He 
would smile when she came into the room, and ask her 
how she did. Once he sat looking at her for some time — 
then said : 

“I hope I did not hurt you much.” 

“When?” she asked. 

“Then,” he answered. 

“Oh, no; you did not hurt me — much!” 

“Another time, I was very cruel to your aunt: do you 
think she will forgive me?” 

“Yes, I do.” 

“Then you have forgiven me?” 

“Of course I have.” 

“Then of course God will forgive me, too!” 

“He will — if you leave off, you know, uncle.” 

“That’s more than I can promise.” 

“If you try he will help you.” 

“How can he? It is a second nature now!” 

“He is your first nature. He can help you too by tak- 
ing away the body and its nature together.” 

“You’re a fine comforter! God help me to be good by 
taking away my life! A nice encouragement to try! 
Hadn’t I better kill myself and save him the trouble?” 

“It’s not the dying, uncle! no amount of dying would 
ever make one good. It might only make it less difficult 
to be good.” 

“But I might after all refuse to be good! I feel sure I 
should! He had better let me alone!” 

“God can do more than that to compel us to be good — 
a great deal more than that! Indeed, uncle, we must 
repent.” 

He said no more for some minutes; then suddenly 
spoke again. 

“I suppose you mean to marry that rascal of a tutor!” 
he said. 

She started up, and called Donal. But to her relief he 
did not answer; he was fast asleep. 

“He would not thank you for the suggestion, I fear,” 
she said, sitting down again. “He is far above me!” 

“Is there no chance for Forgue then?” 

“Not the smallest. I would rather have died where 
you left me than ” 

“If you love me, don’t mention that!” he cried. “I 


DONAL GRANT. 


417 


was not myself — indeed I was not! I don’t know now— 
that is, I oan’t believe sometimes I ever did it.” 

‘‘Uncle, have you asked God to forgive you?” 

“I have — a thousand times.” 

“Then I will never speak of it again.” 

In general, however, he was sullen, cantankerous, abu- 
sive. They were all compassionate to him, treating him 
like a spoiled, but not the less in reality a sickly child. 
Arctura thought her grandmother could not have brought 
him up well; more might surely have been made of him. 
But Arctura had him after a lifetime fertile in cause of 
self-reproach, had him in the net of sore sickness, at the 
mercy of the spirit of God. He was a bad old child — this 
much only the wiser for being old, that he had found the 
ways of transgressors hard. 

One night Donal, hearing him restless, got up from the 
chair where he watched by him most nights, and saw him 
staring, but not seeing; his eyes showed that they regarded 
nothing material. After a moment he gave a great sigh, 
and his jaw fell. Donal thought he was dead. But pres- 
ently he came to himself like one escaping from torture: 
a terrible dream was behind him, pulling at the skirts of 
his consciousness. 

“I’ve seen her!” he said. “She’s waiting for me to 
take me — but where I do not know. She did not look 
angry, but then she seldom looked angry when I was worst 
to her! Grant, I beg of you, don’t lose sight of Davie. 
Make a man of him, and his mother will thank you. She 
was a good woman, his mother, though I did what I could 
to spoil her. It was no use! I never could — 'and that 
was how she kept her hold of me. If I had succeeded, 
there would have been an end of her power, and a genuine 
heir to the earldom! What a damned fool I was to let it 
out! Who would have been the worse? 

“He’s a heartless, unnatural rascal, though,” he re- 
sumed, “and has made of me the fool I deserved to be 
made! His mother must see it was not my fault! I 
would have set things right if I could! But it was too 
late! And you tell me she has had a hand in letting the 
truth out — leaving her letters about! That’s some com- 
fort! She was always fair, and will be the less hard on 
me. If I could see a chance of God being half as good to 
me as my poor wife! She was my wife! I will say it in 


418 


DONAL GRANT. 


spite of all the priests in the stupid universe! She was 
my wife, and deserved to be my wife; and if I had her 
now, I would marry her, because she would be foolish 
enough to like it, though I would not do it all the time 
she was alive, let her beg ever so hard ! Where was the 
use of giving in, when I kept her in hand so easily that 
way? That was it! It was not that I wanted to do her any 
wrong. But you should keep the lead. A man mustn’t 
play out his last trump and lose the lead. But then you 
never know about dying! If I had known my poor wife 
was going to die, I would have done whatever she wanted. 
We had merry times together! It was those cursed drugs 
that wiled the soul out of me, and then the devil went in 
and took its place! There was curare in that last medi- 
cine. I’ll swear! Look you here now, Grant: if there 
were any way of persuading God to give me a fresh lease 
of life! You say he hears prayer: why shouldn’t you ask 
him? I would make you any promise you pleased — give 
you any security you wanted, hereafter to live a godly, 
righteous, and sober life.” 

“But,” said Donal, “suppose God, reading your heart, 
saw that you would go on as bad as ever, and that to leave 
you any longer would only be to make it the more difficult 
for him to do anything with you afterward?” 

“He might give me a chance! It is hard to expect a 
poor fellow to be as good as he is himself!” 

“The poor fellow was made in his image!” suggested 
Donal. 

“Very poorly made then!’ said the earl with a sneer. 
“We might as well have been made in some other body’s 
image!” 

Donal thought with himself. 

“Did you ever know a good woman, my lord?” he 
asked. 

“Know a good woman? Hundreds of them ! The other 
sort was more to my taste! but there was my own mother! 
She was rather hard on my father now and then, but she 
was a good woman.” 

“Suppose you had been in her image, what then?” 

“You would have had some respect for me!” 

“Then she was nearer the image of God than you?” 

“Thousands of miles!” 

“Did you ever know a bad woman?” 


DONAL GRANT. 


419 


“Know a bad woman? Hundreds that would take your 
heart’s blood as you slept to make a philter with!” 

“Then you saw a difference between such a woman and 
your mother?” 

“The one was of heaven, the other of hell — that was all 
the little difference!” 

“Did you ever know a bad woman grow better?” 

“No, never. Stop! let me see! I did once know a 
woman — she was a married woman, too — that made it all 
the worse — all the better, I mean; she took poison — in 
good earnest, and died — died, sir — died, I say — when she 
came to herself, and knew what she had done. That was 
the only woman I ever knew that grew better. How long 
she might have gone on better if she hadn’t taken the 
poison, I can’t tell. That fixed her good, you see!” 

“If she had gone on, she might have got as good as 
your mother?” 

“Oh, hang it! no; I did not say that!” 

“I mean, with God teaching her all the time — for ten 
thousand years, say — and she always doing what he told 
her!” 

“Oh, well! I don’t know anything about that. I 
don’t know what God had to do with my mother being so 
good! She was none of your canting sort!” 

“There is an old story,” said Donal, “of a man who 
was the very image of God, and ever so much better than 
the best of women.” 

“He couldn’t have been much of a man then!” 

“Were you ever afraid, my lord?” 

“Yes, several times — many a time.” 

“That man never knew what fear was.” 

“By Jove!” 

“His mother was good, and he was better: your mother 
was good, and you are worse! Whose fault is that?” 

“My own; I’m not ashamed to confess it.” 

“Would to God you were!” said Donal; “you shame 
your mother in being worse than she was. You were 
made in the image of God, but you don’t look like him 
now any more than you look like your mother. I have a 
father and mother, my lord, as like Gnd as they can look !” 

“Of course! of course! In their position there are no 
such temptations as in ours!” 

“I am sure of one thing, my lord— that you will never 


420 


TONAL GRANT. 


be at any peace until yon begin to show the image in 
which you were made. By that time you will care for 
nothing so much as that he should have his way with you 
and the whole world. ” 

“It will be long before I come to that!” 

“Probably: but you will never have a moment’s peace 
till you begin. It is no use talking though. God has not 
made you miserable enough yet.” 

“I am more miserable than you can think.” 

“Why don’t you cry to him to deliver you?” 

“I would kill myself if it weren’t for one thing.” 

“It is from yourself he would deliver you.” 

“I would, but that I want to put off seeing my wife as 
long as I can.” 

“I thought you wanted to see her!” 

“I long for her sometimes more than tongue can tell.” 

“And you don’t want to see her?” 

“Not yet; not just yet. I should like to be a little 
better— to do something or other — I don’t know what — 
first. I doubt if she would touch me now — with that 
small, firm hand she would catch hold of me with when I 
hurt her. By Jove, if she had been a man, she would 
have made her mark in the world! She had a will and a 
way with her! If it hadn’t been that she loved me — me, 
do you hear, you dog — though there’s nobody left to care 
a worm-eaten nut about me, it makes me proud as Lucifer 
merely to think of it! I don’t care if there’s never another 
to love me to all eternity! I have been loved as never 
man was loved ! All for my own sake, mind you ! In the 
way of money I was no great catch; and for the rank, she 
never got any good of that, nor would if she had lived till 
I was earl: she had a conscience — which I never had — 
and would never have consented to be called countess. 
‘It will be no worse than passing for my wife now,’ I 
would say. ‘What’s either but an appearance? What’s 
anything of all the damned humbug but appearance? 
One appearance is as good as another appearance!’ She 
would only smile — smile fit to make a mule sad! And 
then when her baby was dying, and she wanted me to 
take her for a minute, and I wouldn’t! She laid her 
down, and got what she wanted herself, and when she 
went to take the child again, the absurd little thing was 
— was — gone — dead, I mean gone dead, never to cry any 


DONAL GRANT. 


421 


more! There it lay motionless, like a lump of white clay. 
She looked at me — and never — in this world — smiled 
again! — nor cried either — all I could do to make her! 

The wretched man burst into tears, and the heart of 
Donal gave a leap for joy. Common as tears are, fall as 
they may for the foolishest things, they may yet be such as 
to cause joy in paradise. The man himself may not know 
why he weeps, and his tears yet indicate his turning on 
his road. The earl was as far from a good man as man 
well could be; there were millions of spiritual miles be- 
twixt him and the image of God; he had wept, it was hard 
to say at what — not at his own cruelty, not at his wife’ s 
suffering, not in pity of the little soul that went away at 
last out of no human embrace ; himself least of all could 
have told why he wept; yet was that weeping some sign 
of contact between his human soul and the great human 
soul of God; it was the beginning of a possible communion 
with the Father of all? Surely God saw this, and knew 
the heart he had made — saw the flax smoking yet! He 
who wiil not let us out until we have paid the uttermost 
farthing rejoices over the offer of the first golden grain. 

Donal dropped on his knees and prayed: 

“Oh, Father of us all!” he said, “in whose hands are 
these unruly hearts of ours, we cannot manage ourselves; 
we ruin our own selves; but in thee is our help found!” 

Prayer went from him; he rose from his knees. 

“Go on; go on; don’t stop!” cried the earl. “He 
may hear you — who can tell!” 

Donal went down on his knees again. 

“0 God!” he said, “thou knowest us, whether we speak 
to thee or not; take from this man his hardness of heart. 
Make him love thee.” 

There he stopped again. He could say no more. 

“I can’t pray, my lord,” he said, rising. “I don’t 
know why. It seems as if nothing I said meant anything. 
I will pray for you when I am alone.” 

“Are there so many devils about me that an honest fel- 
low can’t pray in my company?” cried the earl. “I will 
pray myself, in spite of the whole swarm of them, big and 
littie! 0 God, save me! I don’t want to be damned. I 
will be good if thou wilt make me. I don’t care about it 
myself, but thou canst do as thou pleasest. It would be 
a fine thing if a rascal like me were to escape the devil 


422 


TONAL GRANT. 


through thy goodness after all. I’m worth nothing, hut 
there’s my wife! Pray, pray, Lord God, let me one day 
see my wife again! For Christ’s sake — ain’t that the way, 
Grant? Amen.” 

Donal had dropped on his knees once more when the 
earl began to pray. He uttered a hearty “ Amen.” The 
earl turned sharply toward him, and saw he was weeping. 
He put out his hand to him, and said: 

“You’ll stand my friend, Grant?” 


CHAPTER LXXX. 

AWAY-EARING. 

Suddenly what strength Lady Arctnra had gave way, 
and she began to sink. But it was spring with the sum- 
mer at hand; they hoped she would recover sufficiently to 
be removed to a fitter climate. She did not herself think 
so. She had hardly a doubt that her time was come. 
She was calm, often cheerful, but her spirits were variable. 
Donal’s heart was sorer than he had thought it could be 
again. 

One day, having been reading a little to her, he sat 
looking at her. He did not know how sad was the expres- 
sion of his countenance. She looked up, smiled, and said : 

“You think I am unhappy — you could not look at me 
like that if you did not think so! I am only tired: I am 
not unhappy. I hardly know now what unhappiness is! 
If ever I look as if I were unhappy, it is only that I am 
waiting for more life. It is on the way; I feel it is, be- 
cause I am so content with everything; I would have 
nothing other than it is. It is very hard for God that his 
children will not trust him to do with them what he 
pleases! I am sure, Mr. Grant, the world is all wrong, 
and on the way to be all wondrously right. It will cost 
God much labor yet; we will cost him as little as we can 
— won’t we? Oh, Mr. Grant, if it hadn’t been for you, 
God would have been far away still ! For a God I should 
have had something half an idol, half a commonplace 
tyrant! I should never have dreamed of the glory of 
God!” 

“No, my lady!” returned Donal; “if God had not sent 


DONAL GRANT. 


423 


me, he would have sent somebody else: you were 
ready !” 

“I am very glad he sent you ! I should never have loved 
any other so much !” 

DonaPs eyes filled with tears. He was simple as a 
child. No male vanity, no self-exultation that a woman 
should love him, and tell him she loved him, sprung up 
in his heart. He knew she loved him; he loved her; all 
was so natural it could not be otherwise: he never pre- 
sumed to imagine her once thinking of him as he had 
thought of Ginevra. He was her servant, willing and 
loving as any angel of God : that was all — and enough! 

“You are not vexed with your pupil — are you?” she 
resumed, again looking up in his face, this time with a 
rosy flush on her own. 

“Why?” said Donal, with wonder. 

“For speaking so to my master. 

“Angry because you love me?” 

“No, of course!” she responded, at once satisfied. 
“You knew that must be! How could I but love you — 
better than any one else in the world! You have given 
me life! I was dead. You have been like another father 
to me!” she added, with a smile of heavenly tenderness. 
“But I could not have spoken to you like this, if I had 
not known I was dying.” 

The word shot a sting as of fire through DonaPs heart. 

“You are always a child, Mr. Grant,” she went on; 
“death is making a child of me: it makes us all children: 
as if we were two little children together, I tell you I love 
you. Don’t look like that,” she continued; “you must 
not forget what you have been teaching me all this time 
— that the will of God, the perfect God, is all in all! He 
is not a God far off : to know that is enough to have lived 
for! You have taught me that, and I love you with a 
true heart fervently.” 

Donal could not speak. He knew she was dying. 

“Mr. Grant,” she began again, “my soul is open to his 
eyes, and is not ashamed. I know I am going to do what 
would by the world be counted unwomanly; but you and 
I stand before our Father, not before the world. I ask 
you in plain words, knowing that if you cannot do as 1 
ask you willingly, you will not do it. And be sure I shall 
plainly be dying before X claim the fulfillment of your 


DONAL GRANT. 


iU 

promise if you give it. I do not want your answer all at 
once: you must think about it.” 

Here she paused awhile, then said: 

“I want you to marry me, if you will, before I go.” 

Donal could not yet speak. His soul was in a tumult 
of emotion. 

“I am tired,” she said. “Please go and think it over. 
If you say no, I shall only say, ‘He knows best what is 
best!’ I shall not be ashamed. Only you must not once 
think what the world would say: of all people we have 
nothing to do with the world! We have nothing to do 
but with God and love! If he be pleased with us, we can 
afford to smile at what his silly children think of us: they 
mind only what their vulgar nurses say, not what their 
perfect father says; we need not mind them — need we? 
I wonder at myself,” she went on, for Donal did not utter 
a word, “for being able to speak like this; but then I 
have been thinking of it for a long time — chiefly as I lie 
awake. I am never afraid now — not though I lie awake 
all night: ‘perfect love casteth out fear,’ you know. I 
have God to love, and Jesus to love, and you to love, and 
my own father to love! When you know T him, you will 
see how good a man can be without having been brought 
up like you! Oh, Donal, do say something, or I shall cry, 
and crying kills me!” 

She was sitting on a low chair, with the sunlight across 
her lap — for she was again in the sunny Garland-room — 
and the firelight on her face. Donal knelt gently down, 
and laid his hands in the sunlight on her lap, just as if he 
were going to say his prayers at his mother’s knee. She 
laid both her hands on his. 

“I have something to tell you,” he said; “and then 
you must speak again.” 

“Tell me,” said Arctura, with a little gasp. 

“When I came here,” said Donal, “I thought my heart 
was so broken that it would never love — that way, I mean 
— any more. But it loved God better than ever; and as 
one I would fain help, I loved you from the very first. 
But I should have scorned myself had I once fancied you 
loved me more than just to do anything for me I needed 
done. When I saw you troubled, I longed to take you up 
in my arms, and carry you like a lovely bird that had 
fallen from one of God’s nests; but never once, my lady, 


DONAL GRANT. 


425 


did I think of your caring for my love: it was yours as a 
matter of course. I once asked a lady to kiss me — just 
once, for a gool-by; she would not — and she was quite 
right; but after that I never spoke to a lady but she 
seemed to stand far away on the top of a hill against the 
sky.” 

He stopped. Her hands on his fluttered a little, as if 
they would fly. 

“Is she still — is she — alive?” she asked. 

“Oh, yes, my ladv.” 

“Then she may — change — ” said Arctura, and stopped, 
for there was a stone in her heart. 

Donal laughed. It was an odd laugh, but it did Arc- 
tura good. 

“No danger of that, my lady! She has the best hus- 
band in the world — a much better than I should have 
made, much as I loved her.” 

“That can’t be!” 

“Why, my lady, her husband’s Sir Gibbie! She’s Lady 
Galbraith! I would never have wished her mine if I had 
known she loved Gibbie. I love her next to him.” 

“Then— then ” 

“What, my lady?” 

“Then — then — • Oh, do say something!” 

“What should I say? What God wills is fast as the 
roots of the universe, and lovely as its blossom.” 

Arctura burst into tears. 

“Then you do not — care for me!” 

Donal began to understand. In some things he went 
on so fast that he could not hear the cry behind him. 
She had spoken, and had been listening in vain for re- 
sponse! She thought herself unloved; he had shown her 
no sign that he loved her! 

His heart was so full of love and joy of love, that they 
had made him very still; now the delight of love awoke. 
He took her in his arms like a child, rose, and went walk- 
ing about the room with her, petting and soothing her. 
He held her close to his heart; her head was on his shoul- 
der, and his face was turned to hers. 

“I love you,” he said, “and love you to all eternity! 

I have love enough now to live upon, if you should die to- 
night, and I should tarry till he come. 0 God, thou art 
too good to me! It is more than my heart can bear! To 


426 


DONAL GRANT. 


make men and women, and give them to each other, and 
not be one moment jealous of the love wherewith they 
love one another, is to be a God indeed !” 

So said Donal — and spoke the high truth. But alas for 
the love wherewith men and women love each other! 
There were small room for God to be jealous of that! It 
is the little love with which they love each other, the 
great love with which they love themselves, that hurts 
the heart of their father. 

Arctura sighed at length a prayer for release, and he 
set her gently down in her chair again. Then he saw her 
face more beautiful than ever before; and the rose that 
bloomed there was the rose of a health deeper than sick- 
ness. These children of God were of the blessed few who 
love the more that they know him present, whose souls 
are naked before him, and not ashamed. Let him that 
hears understand! if he understand not, let him hold hia 
peace, and it will be his wisdom! He who has no place 
for his love in his religion, who thinks to be more holy 
without it, is not of God’s mind when he said, “Let ua 
make man!” He may be a saint, but he cannot be a man 
after God’s own heart. The finished man is the saved 
man. The saint may have to be saved from more than 
sin. 

“When shall we be married?” said Donal. 

“Soon, soon,” answered Arctura. 

“To-morrow then?” 

“No, not to-morrow: there is no such haste — now that 
we understand each other,” she added, with a rosy smile. 
“I want to be married to you before I die, that is all — not 
just to-morrow, or the next day.” 

“When you please, my love,” said Donal, 

She laid her head on his bosom. 

“We are as good as married now,” she said; “we know 
that each loves the other! How I shall wait for you! 
You will be mine, you know — a little bit mine — won’t 
you? even if you should marry some beautifal lady after 
I am gone? I shall love her when she comes.” 

“Arctura!” said Donal. 


DONAL GRANT. 


42? 


CHAPTER LXXXI. 

A WILL AND A WEDDING. 

But the opening of the windows of heaven, and the un- 
speakable rush of life through channels too narrow and 
banks too weak to hold its tide, caused a terrible inunda- 
tion; the red flood broke its banks, and weakened all the 
land. 

Arctura sent for Mr. Graeme, and commissioned him 
to fetch the family lawyer from Edinburgh. Along with 
him she gave instructions concerning her will. The man 
of business shrugged his shoulders, laden with so many 
petty weights, towed down with so many falsest opinions, 
and would have expostulated with her. 

“Sir!” she said. 

“You have a cousin who inherits the title!” he sug- 
gested. 

“Mr. Fortune,” she returned, “it may be I know as 
much of my family as you. I did not send for you to 
consult you, but to tell you how I would have my will 
drawn up!” 

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” rejoined the lawyer, 
“but there are things which may make it one’s duty to 
speak out.” 

“Speak then; I will listen — that you may ease your 
mind.” 

He began a long, common-sense, worldly talk on the 
matter, nor once repeated himself. When he stopped: 

“Now have you eased jmur mind?” she asked. 

“I have, my lady.” 

“Then listen to me. There is no necessity you should 
hurt either your feelings or your prejudices. If it goes 
against your conscience to do as I wish, I will not trouble 
you.” 

Mr. Fortune bowed, took his instructions, and rose. 

“When will you bring it me?” she asked. 

“In the course of a week or two, my lady.” 

“If it is not in my hands by the day after to-morrow, 
[ will send for a gentleman from the town to prepare it.” 

“You shall have it, my lady,” said Mr. Fortune. 

She did have it, and it was signed and witnessed. 

Then she sank more rapidly. Donal said no word about 


428 


DONAL GRANT. 


the marriage; it should be as she pleased. He was much 
by her bedside, reading to her when she was able to listen, 
talking to her or sitting silent when she was not. 

Arctura had at once told Mistress Brookes the relation 
in which she and Donal stood to each other. It cost the 
good woman many tears, for she thought such a love one 
of the saddest things in a sad world. Neither Arctura 
nor Donal thought so. 

The earl at this time was a little better, though without 
prospect of even temporary recovery. He had grown 
much gentler, and sadness had partially displaced his sul- 
lenness. He seemed to have become in a measure aware 
of the bruteness of the life he had hither.to led: he must 
have had a glimpse of something better. It is wonderful 
what the sickness which human stupidity regards as the 
one evil thing can do toward redemption! He showed 
concern at his niece’s illness, and had himself carried 
down every other day to see her for a few minutes. She 
received him always with the greatest gentleness, and he 
showed something that seemed like genuine affection for 
her. 

It was a morning in the month of May: 

“ The naked twigs were shivering all for cold,” 

when Donal, who had been with Arctura the greater part 
of the night, and now lay on the couch in a neighboring 
room, heard Mrs. Brookes call him. 

“My lady wants you, sir,” she said. 

He started up, and went to her. 

“Send for the minister,” sho whispered, “not Mr. Car- 
michael; he does not know you. Send for Mr. Graeme 
too: he and Mistress Brookes will be witnesses. I must 
call you husband onco before I dio!” 

“I hope you will many a time after!” he returned. 

She smiled oa him with a look of love unutterable. 

“Mind,” she said, holding out her arms feebly, but 
drawing him fast to her bosom, “that this is how I love 
you! When you see me dull and stupid, and I hardly 
look at you — for though death makes bright, dying makes 
stupid — then say to yourself, ‘This is not how she loves 
me; it is only how she is dying! She loves me and knows 
it — and by and by will be able to show it!’ ” 

They were precious words both then and afterward. 


DONAL GRANT. 


429 


With some careful questioning, to satisfy himself that, 
so evidently at the gate of death, she yet knew perfectly 
her own mind — and not without some shakes of the head 
revealing disapprobation, the minister did as he was re- 
quested, and wrote a certificate of the fact, which was 
duly signed and witnessed. 

And if he showed his disapproval yet more in the prayer 
with which he concluded the ceremony, none but Mistress 
Brookes showed responsive indignation. 

The bridegroom gave his bride one gentle kiss, and 
withdrew with the clergyman. 

“Pardon me if 1 characterize this as a strange proceed- 
ing !” said the latter. 

“Not so strange perhaps as it looks, sir!” said Donal. 

“On the very brink of the other world!” 

“The other world and its brink too are His who ordained 
marriage!” 

“For this world only,” said the minister. 

“The gifts of God are without repentance,” said Donal. 

“I have heard of you!” returned the clergyman. “You 
are one, they tell me, given to misusing Scripture.” 

He had conceived a painful doubt that he had been 
drawn into some plot. 

“Sir!” said Donal sternly, “if you saw any impropriety 
in the ceremony, why did you perform it? i beg you will 
now reserve your remarks. You ought to have made them 
before or not at all. If you be silent, the thing will prob- 
ably never be heard of, and I should greatly dislike having 
it the town talk.” 

“Except I see reason — that is, if nothing follow to ren- 
der disclosure necessary, I shall be silent,” said the 
minister. 

He would have declined the fee offered by Donal; but 
he was poor, and its amount prevailed; he accepted it, 
and took his leave with a stiffness he intended for dignity; 
he had a high sense, if not of the dignity of his office, at 
least of the dignity his office conferred on him. 

Donal had next a brief interview with Mr. Graeme. 
The factor was in a state of utter bewilderment, and read- 
ily yielded Donal a promise of silence; the mere whim of 
a dying girl, it had better be ignored and forgotten. As 
to Grant’s part in it he did not know what to think. It 
could not affect the property, he thought: it could hardly 


430 


DONAL GRANT. 


be a marriage! And then there was the will — of the con- 
tents of which he knew nothing! If it were a complete 
marriage, the will was worth nothing, being made before 
it. 

I will not linger over the quiet, sad time that followed. 
Donal was to Arctnra, she said, father, brother, husband, 
in one. Through him she had reaped the harvest of the 
world, in spite of falsehood, murder, fear, and distrust! 
She lay victorious on the battlefield! 

In the heart of her bridegro'om reigned a peace the 
world could not give or take away. He loved with a love 
that cast the love of former days into the shadow of a 
sweet but undesired remembrance. A long twilight life 
lay before him, but he would have plenty to do! and such 
was the love between him and Arctura, that every doing 
of the will of God was as the tying of a fresh bond between 
him and her: she was his because they were the Father’s, 
whose will was the life and bond of the universe. 

“I think,” said Donal, that same night by her bed, 
“when my mother dies she will go near you: I will, if I 
can, send you a message by her. But it will not matter; 
it can only tell you what you will know well enough — that 
I love you, and am waiting to come to you.” 

The stupidity of calling one’s self a Christian, and 
doubting if we shall know our friends hereafter! In 
those who do not believe, such a doubt is more than natu- 
ral, but in those who profess to believe, it shows what a 
ragged scarecrow is the thing they call their faith — not 
worth that of many an old Jew, or that of here and there 
a pagan ! 

“I shall not be far from you, dear, I think — sometimes 
at least,” she said, speaking very low. “If you dream 
anything nice about me, think I am thinking of you. If 
you should dream anything not nice, think something is 
lying to you about me. I do not know if I shall be allowed 
to come near you, but if I am — and I think I shall be — 
sometimes, I shall laugh to myself to think how near I 
am, and you fancying me a long way off! But anyway all 
will be well, for the great life, our God, our Father, is, 
and in him we cannot but be together.” 

After that she fell into a deep sleep, and slept for hours. 
Then suddenly she sat up. Donal put his arm behind 
and supported her. She looked a little wild, shuddered, 


DONAL GRANT. 


431 


murmured something he could not understand, then 
threw herself back into his arms. Her expression changed 
to a look of divinest, loveliest content, and she was gone. 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 

THE WILL. 

When her will was read, it was found that, except some 
legacies, and an annuity to Mrs. Brookes, she had left 
everything to Donal. 

Mr. Graeme, rising the moment the lawyer looked up, 
congratulated Donal — politely, not cordially, and took 
his leave. 

“If you are walking toward home,” said Donal, “I will 
walk with you.” 

“I shall be happy,” said Mr. Graeme — feeling it not a 
little hard that one who would soon- be hei'r presumptive 
to the title should have to tend the family property in the 
service of a stranger and a peasant. 

“Lord Morven cannot live long,” said Donal as they 
went. “It is not to be wished he should.” 

Mr. Graeme returned no answer. Donal resumed. 

“I think I ought to let you know at once that you are 
heir to the title.” 

“I think you owe the knowledge to myself!” said the 
factor, not without a touch of contempt. 

“By no means,” rejoined Donal: “on presumption, 
after Lord Eorgue, you told me — after Lord Morven, I 
tell you.” 

“I am at a loss to imagine on what you found such a 
statement,” said Graeme, beginning to suspect insanity. 

“Naturally; no one knows it but myself. Lord Morven 
knows that his son cannot succeed, but he does not know 
that you can. I am prepared, if not to prove, at least to 
convince you that he and his son’s mother were not mar- 
ried.” 

Mr. Graeme was for a moment silent. Then he laughed 
a little laugh — not a pleasant one. “Another of Time’s 
clownish tricks!” he said to himself: “the earl the factor 
on the family estate!” Donal did not like the way he took 
it, but saw how natural it was. 


432 


DONAL GRANT. 


“I hope you have known me long enough, ” he said, 
“to believe I have contrived nothing?” 

“Excuse me, Mr. Grant; the whole business looks sus- 
picious. The girl was dying! You knew it!” 

“I do not understand you.” 

“What did you marry her for?” 

“To make her my wife.” 

“Pray what could he the good of that except ?” 

“Does it need any explanation but that we loved each 
other?” 

“You will find it difficult to convince the world that 
such was your sole motive.” 

“Having no care for the opinion of the world, I shall 
be satisfied if I convince you. The world needs never 
hear of the thing. Would you, Mr. Graeme, have had 
me not marry her, because the world, including not a few 
honest men like yourself, would say my object was the 
property?” 

“Don’t put the question to me; I am not the proper 
person to answer it. There is not a man in a hundred 
millions who with the chance would not have done the 
same, or whom all the rest would not blame for doing it. 
It would have been better for you, however, that there 
had been no will.” 

“How?” 

“It makes it look the more like a scheme — the will 
might have been disputed.” 

“Why do you say — might have been?” 

“Because it is not worth disputing now. If the mar- 
riage stands, it annuls the will.” 

“I do not know; and I suppose she did not know either. 
Or perhaps she wanted to make the thing sure; if the 
marriage was not enough, the will would be — she may 
have thought. But I knew nothing of it.” 

“You did not?” 

“Of course I did not.” 

Mr. Graeme held his peace. For the first time he 
doubted Donal’s word. 

“But I wanted to have a little talk with you/’ resumed 
Donal. “I want to know whether you think your duty 
all to the owner of the land, or in any measure to the 
tenants also.” 

“That is easy to answer: one employed by the landlord 
can owe the tenant nothing.” 


DON AL GRANT. 


433 


It was not just the answer he would have given to an- 
other questioner. 

“Do you not owe him justice?’’ asked Donal. 

“Every legal advantage I ought to take for my em- 
ployer.” 

“Even to the grinding of the faces of the poor?” 

“I have nothing to do, as his employee, with my own 
ideas as to what may be equitable.” 

He drew the line thus hard in pure opposition to Donal. 

“What then would you say if the land were your own? 
Would you say you had it solely for your own and your 
family’s good, or for that of the tenants as well?” 

“I should very likely reason that what was good for 
them would in the long run be good for me too. But if 
you want to know how I have treated the tenants, there 
are intelligent men among them, not at all prejudiced in 
favor of the factor!” 

“I wish you would be open with me,” said Donal. 

“I prefer keeping my own place,” rejoined Mr. Graeme. 

“You speak as one who found a change in me,” re- 
turned Donal. “There is none.” 

So saying he shook hands with him, bade him good- 
morning, and turned with the depression of failure. 

“I did not lead up to the point properly!” he said to 
himself. 


CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

INSIGHT. 

Mr. Graeme was a good sort of man, and a gentleman; 
but he was not capable of meeting Donal on the ground 
on which he approached him : on that level he had never 
set foot. There is nothing more disappointing to the 
generous man than the way in which his absolute frank- 
ness is met by the man of the world — always looking out 
for motives, and imagining them after what is in himself. 

There was great confidence between the, brother and 
sister, and as he walked homeward Mr. Graeme was not 
so well pleased with himself as to think with satisfaction 
on the report of the interview he could give Kate. He 
did not accuse himself with regard to anything he had 
said, but he felt his behavior influenced by jealousy of 


434 


1)0NAL GRANT. 


the low-born youth who had supplanted him. For, if 
Percy could not succeed to the title, neither could he have 
succeeded to the property; and but for the will or the 
marriage, perhaps but for the two together, he would 
himself have come in for that also! The will was worth 
nothing except the marriage was disputed: annul the 
marriage, and the will was of force. 

He told his sister, as nearly as he could, all that had 
passed between them. 

“If he wanted me to talk to him, ,, he said, “why did 
he tell me that about Forgue? It was infernally stupid 
of him! But what’s bred in the bone — A gentleman’s 
not made in a day!” 

“Nor in a thousand years, Hector!” rejoined his sister. 
“Donal Grant is a gentleman in the best sense of the 
word! That you say he is not, lets me see you are vexed 
with yourself. He is a little awkward sometimes, I con- 
fess; but only when he is looking at a thing from some 
other point of view, and does not like to say you ought 
to have been looking at it from the same. And you can’t 
say he shuffles, for he never stops till he has done his best 
to make you! What have you been saying to him, Hec- 
tor?” 

“Nothing but what I have told you; it’s rather what I 
have not been saying!” answered her brother. “He would 
have had me open out to him, and I wouldn’t. How 
could I! Whatever I said that pleased him would have 
looked as if I wanted to secure my situation! Hang it 
all! I have a good mind to throw it up! How is a 
Graeme to serve under a bumpkin?” 

“The man is not a bumpkin; he is a scholar and a 
poet!” said the lady. 

“Pooh! pooh! What’s a poet?” 

“One that may or may not be as good a man of business 
as yourself when it is required of him.” 

“Gome, come! don’t you turn against me, Kate! It’s 
hard enough to bear as it is!” 

Miss Graeme made no reply. She was meditating all 
she knew of Donal, to guide her to the something to 
which she was sure her brother had not let him come; 
and presently she made him recount again all they had 
said to each other. 

“I tell you, Hector,” she exclaimed, “you never made 


TONAL GRANT. 


435 


such a fool of yourself in your life! If I know human 
nature, that man is different from any other you have had 
to do with. It will take a woman, a better woman than 
your sister, I confess, to understand him ; but I see a little 
further into him than you do. He is a man who, never 
having had money enough to learn the bad uses of it, and 
never having formed habits it takes money to supply, 
having no ambition, living in books not in places, and for 
pleasure having more at his command in himself than the 
richest — he is a man who, I say, would find money an im- 
pediment to his happiness, for he must have a sense of 
duty with regard to it which would interfere with every- 
thing he liked best. Besides, though he does not care a 
straw for the judgment of the world where it differs from 
him, he would be sorry to seem to go against that judg- 
ment where he agrees with it: scorning to marry any 
woman for her money, he would not have the world think 
he had done so.” 

“Ah, Katey, there I have you! The world would en- 
tirely approve of his doing that!” 

“i will take a better position then; he would not will- 
ingly seem to have done a thing he himself despises. The 
man believes himself sent into the world to teach it some- 
thing; he would not have it thrown in his teeth that, 
after all, he looks to the main chance as keenly as another. 
He would starve before he would have men say so — yes, 
even say so falsely. I am as sure he did uot marry Lady 
Arctura for her money, as I am sure Lord Forgue, or you, 
Hector, would have done it if you had had a chance. There! 
My conviction is that the bumpkin sought a fit opening to 
tell you that the will was to go for nothing, and that no 
word need be said about the marriage. You know he 
made you promise not to mention it — only I wormed it 
out of you!” 

“That’s just like you women! The man you take a 
fancy to is always head and shoulders above other men!” 

“As you take it so, I will tell you more: that man will 
never marry again!” 

“Wait a bit. Admiration is sometimes mutual: who 
knows but he may ask you next!” 

“If he did ask me, I might take him, but I should 
never think so much of him!” 

“Heroic Kate!” 


436 


DONAL GRANT. 


“If yon had been a little more heroic, Hector, yon 
would have responded to him — and found it considerably 
to your advantage.” 

“You don’t imagine I would be indebted 

“Hush ! hush! Don’t pledge yourself in a hurry — even 
to me!” said Kate. “Leave as wide a sea-margin about 
your boat as you may. You don’t know what you would 
or would not. Mr. Grant knows, but you do not.” 

“Mr. Grant again! Well!” 

“Well! we shall see.” 

And they soon did. For that same evening Donal 
called, and asked to see Miss Graeme. 

“Iam sorry my brother is gone down to the town,” she 
said. 

“It was you I wanted to see,” he answered. “I wish 
to speak openly to you, for I imagine you will understand 
me better than your brother. Perhaps I ought rather to 
say — I shall be better able to explain myself to you.” 

There was that in his countenance which seemed to 
seize and hold her— a calm exaltation, as of a man who 
had outlived weakness and was facing the eternal. The 
spirit of a smile hovered about his mouth and eyes, em- 
bodying itself now and then in a grave, sweet, satisfied 
smile; the man seemed full of content, not with himself, 
but with something he would gladly share. 

“I have been talking with your brother,” he said, after 
a brief pause. 

“I know,” she answered. “I am afraid he did not 
meet you as he ought. He is a good and honorable man; 
but like most men he needs a moment to pull himself to- 
gether. Few men, Mr. Grant, when suddenly called 
upon, answer from the best that is in them.” 

“The fact is simply this,” resumed Donal. “I do not 
want the Morven property. I thank God for Lady Arc- 
tura: what was hers I do not desire.” 

“But may it not be your duty to take it, Mr. Grant? 
Pardon me for suggesting duty to one who always acts 
from it.” 

“I have reflected, and do not think God wants me to 
take it. Because she is mine, ought I of necessity to be 
enslaved to all her accidents? Must I, because I love her, 
hoard her gowns and shoes?” 

Then first Miss Graeme noted that he never spoke of 
his wife as in the past. 


DONAL GRANT. 


437 


“But there are others to be considered, ” she replied. 
“You have made me think about many things, Mr. Grant. 
My brother and I have had many talks as to what we 
would do if the land were ours.” 

“And yours it shall be,” said Donal, “if you will take 
it as a trust for the good of all whom it supports. I have 
other work to do.” 

“I will tell my brother what you say,” answered Miss 
Graeme, with victory in her heart — for was it not as she 
had divined? 

“It is better,” continued Donal, “to help make good 
men than happy tenants. Besides, I know how to do the 
one, and I do not know how to do the other. There 
would always be a prejudice against me too, as not to the 
manner born. But if your brother should accept my 
otfer, I hope he will not think me interfering if I talk 
sometimes of the principles of the relation. Things go 
wrong, generally, because men have such absurd and im- 
possible notions about possession. They call things their 
own which it is impossible, from their very nature, ever 
to possess or make their own. Power was never given to 
man over men for his own sake, and the nearer he that so 
uses it comes to success, the more utter will prove his dis- 
comfiture. Talk to your brother about it, Miss Graeme. 
Tell him that, as heir to the title, and as head of the 
family, he can do more than any other with the property, 
and I will gladly make it over to him without reserve. I 
would not be even partially turned aside from my own 
calling.” 

“I will tell him what you say. I told him he had mis- 
understood you. I saw into your generous thought.” 

“It is not generous at all. My dear Miss Graeme, you 
do not know how little of a temptation such things are to 
me! There are some who only care to inherit straight 
from the first Father. You may say the earth is the 
Lord’s, and therefore a part of that first inheritance; I 
admit it; but such possession as this in question would 
not satisfy me in the least. I must inherit the earth in a 
far deeper, grander, truer way than calling the land mine, 
before I shall count myself to have come into my own. I 
want to have all things just as the Maker of me wants me 
to have them. I will call on you again to-morrow; I 
must now go back to the earl Poor man, he is sinking 


438 


DONAL GRANT. 


fast! but I believe he is more at peace than he has ever 
been before!” 

Donal took his leave, and Miss Graeme had plenty to 
think of till her brother’s return; if she felt a little tri- 
umphant, it may be pardoned her. 

He was ashamed, and not a little humbled by what she 
told him. He did not wait for Donal to come to him, but 
went to the castle early the next morning. Nor was he 
mistaken in trusting Donal to believe that it was not from 
eagerness to retrace in his own interest the false step he 
had taken, but from desire to show his shame of having 
behaved so ungenerously: Donal received him so as to 
make it plain he did not misunderstand him, and they 
had a long talk. Graeme was all the readier for his blun- 
der to hear what Donal had to say, and Donal’s unques- 
tionable disinterestedness was endlessly potent with 
Graeme. Their interview resulted in Donal’s thinking 
still better of him than before, and being satisfied that, 
up to his light, the man was honest — which is saying 
much — and thence open to conviction, and both sides of 
a question. But ere it was naturally over, Donal was 
summoned to the earl. 

After his niece’s death, no one would do for him but 
Donal; nobody could please him but Donal. His mind 
as well as his body was much weaker. But the intellect, 
great thing though it be, is yet but the soil out of which, 
or rather in which, higher things must grow; and it is 
well when that soil is not too strong, so to speak, for the 
most gracious and lovely of plants to root themselves in 
it. When the said soil is proud and unwilling to serve, 
it must be thinned and pulverized with sickness, failure, 
poverty, fear — that the good seeds of God’s garden maybe 
able to root themselves in it: when they get up a little, 
they will use all the riches and all the strength of the 
stillest soil.” 

“Who will have the property now?” he asked one day. 
“Is the factor anywhere in the running?” 

“Title and property both will be his,” answered Donal. 

“And my poor Davie?” said the earl, with wistful ques- 
tion in the eyes that gazed up in Donal’s face. “Forgue, 
the rascal, has all my money in his power already.” 

“I will see to Davie,” replied Donal. “When you and 
I meet, my lord— by and by, I shall not be ashamed.” 


DONAL GRANT. 


439 


The poor man was satisfied. He sent for Davie, and 
told him he was always to do as Mr. Grant wished, that 
he left him in his charge, and that he must behave to him 
like a son. 

Davie was fast making acquaintance with death — but it 
was not to him dreadful as to most children, for he saw it 
through the face and words of the man whom he most 
honored. 


CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

MORVEN HOUSE. 

Ik the evening Donal went again to the home-farm. 
Finding himself alone in the drawing-room, he walked 
out into the cool garden. 

“Thank God,” he said to himself, “if my wife should 
come here some sad, sweet night, with a low moon-cres- 
cent, and a gently thinking wind, and wander about the 
garden, it will not be to know herself forgotten!” 

He went up and down the grassy paths. Once again, 
all as long ago — for it seemed long now — he was joined by 
Miss Graeme. 

“I couldn't help fancying,” she said as she came up to 
him, “that I saw Lady Arctura walking hv your side. 
God forgive me! how could I be so heartless as mention 
her!” 

“Her name will always be pleasant in my ears,” re- 
turned Donal. “I was thinking of her — that was how 
you felt as if you saw her! You did not really see any- 
thing, did you?” 

“Oh, no!” 

“She is nearer to me than that,” said Donal. “She 
will be with me wherever I am; I shall never be sad. 
God is with me, and I do not weep that I cannot see him ; 
I wait; I wait.” 

Miss Graeme was in tears. 

“Mr. Grant,” she said, “she is gone a happy angel to 
heaven instead of a pining woman! That is your doing! 
God bless you ! You will let me think of you as a friend ?” 

“Always; always: you loved her.” 

“I did not at first; I thought of her only as a poor 
troubled creature. Now I know there was more life in 


440 


DONAL GRANT. 


her trouble than in my content. I came not only to love 
her, but to look up to her as a saint; if ever there was 
one, it was she, Mr. Grant. She often came here after I 
showed her that poem. She used to walk alone in the 
twilight. That horrid Miss Carmichael! she was the 
plague of her life!” 

“She was God’s messenger — to buffet her, and make 
her know her need of him. Be sure, Miss Graeme, not a 
soul can do without him.” 

Here Mr. Graeme joined them. 

“I do not think the earl will last many days,” said 
"Donal. “It would be well, it seems to me, at once upon 
his death to take possession of the house in the town. It 
is the only property that goes with the title. And of 
course you would at once take up your abode in the castle! 
You will find in the earl’s papers many proofs, I imagine, 
that his son has no claim. I would have a deed of gift 
drawn up, but would rather you seemed to come in by 
natural succession. We are not bound to tell the world 
everything; we are only bound to be able without shame 
to tell it everything. And then I shall have a favor to 
ask: Morven House, down in the town, is of no great use 
to you; let me rent it of you. I should like to live there 
and have a school, with Davie for my first pupil. When 
we get another, we will try to make a man of him too. 
We will not care so much about making a great scholar, 
or a great anything of him, but a true man. We will try 
to help the whole man of him into the likeness of the one 
man.” 

Here Mr. Graeme broke in. 

“You will never make a living that way!” he said. 

Donal opened his eyes and looked at him. Like one 
convicted and ashamed the eyes of the man of business 
fell before those of the man of God. 

“Ah,” said Donal, “you have not an idea, Mr. Graeme, 
on how little I could live. Here, you had better take the 
will,” he added, pulling it from his pocket. 

Mr. Graeme hesitated. 

“If you would rather not, I will keep it. I would throw 
it in the fire, but either you or I must keep it for a time 
as against all chances.” 

Mr. Graeme took it. 

That night the earl died. 


DONAL GRANT. 


441 


Donal wrote to Percy that his father was dead. Two 
days after, he appeared. The new earl met him in the 
hall. 

“Mr. Graeme, ” said Percy. 

“I am Lord Morven, Mr. Graeme,” returned his lord- 
ship. 

The fellow said an evil word, turned on his heel, and 
left them to bury his father without him. 

The funeral over, the earl turned to Donal and looked 
him in the face: they walked back to the castle arm in 
arm, and from that moment were as brothers. 

Earl Hector did nothing of importance without consult- 
ing Donal, and Donal had the more influence both with 
the landlord and tenants that he had no interest in the 
property. 

The same week he left the castle, and took possession 
of Morven House. The people said Mr. Grant had played 
his cards well; had they known what he had really done, 
they would have called him a born idiot. 

Davie, to whom no calamity could be overwhelming so 
long as he had Mr. Grant, accompanied him gladly, more 
than content to live with him till he went to college, 
whither the earl wished to send him. Donal hinder3d 
rather than sped the day. When it came, the earl would 
have had him go too, but Donal would not 

“I have done what I can,” he said. “It is time he 
should walk alone.” 

It was soon evident that the boy would not disgrace 
him. There is no certainty as to how deep any teaching 
may have gone — as to whether it has reached the issues of 
life or not, until a youth is left by himself, and has to 
choose and refuse companions: the most promising youths 
are often but promisers. 

With the full concurrence of Miss Graeme, Donal had 
persuaded Mistress Brookes — easy persuasion where the 
suggestion was enough — to keep house for him. They 
went together, and together unlocked the door of Morven 
House. 

Mistress Brookes said the place was in an awful state. 
There was not much, to be sure, for the mason to do, but 
for the carpenter! It had not been touched for genera- 
tions. He must go away, and stay away till she sum- 
moned him. 


442 


DONAL GRANT. 


Donal gladly went home to his hills, and took Davie 
with him. He told his father and mother, Sir Gibbie and 
his lady, the things that had befallen him, and every one 
approved heartily of what he had done. His mother took 
his renunciation of the property as a matter of course. 
All agreed it should not be spoken of. When they re- 
turned to Auchars, Sir Gibbie and Lady Galbraith went 
with them, and stayed for some weeks. The townsfolk 
said he was but a poor baronet that could not speak mor- 
tal word. 

Lord Morven and Miss Graeme had done their best to 
make the house what they thought Donal would like. 
But in the castle they kept for him the rooms Lady Arc- 
tura had called her own. There he gathered the books, 
and a few other of the more immediately personal posses- 
sions of his wife — her piano for one — upon which he 
taught himself to play a little: and thither he betook 
himself often on holidays, and always on Sunday even- 
ings. What went on then I leave to the imagination of 
the reader who knows that alone one may meet many, 
sitting still may travel far, and silent make the universe 
hear. 

Lord Morven kept Larkie for Davie. The last I heard 
of Davie was that he was in India, an officer in the army, 
beloved of his men, and exercising a most beneficial influ- 
ence on his regiment. The things he had learned he had 
so learned that they went out from him, finding new 
ground in which to root and grow. In his day and gener- 
ation he helped the coming of the kingdom of truth and 
righteousness, and so fulfilled his high calling. 

It was some time before Donal had any pupils, and he 
never had many, for he was regarded as a most peculiar 
man, with ideas about education odd in the extreme. It 
was granted, however, that, if a boy stayed, or rather, if 
he allowed him to stay with him long enough, he was sure 
to turn out a gentleman; that which was deeper and was 
the life of the gentleman, people seldom saw — would sel- 
dom have valued if they had seen. Most parents would 
like their children to be ladies and gentlemen, that they 
should be sons and daughters of God they do not care. 

The few wise souls in the neighborhood know Donal as 
the heart of the place — the roan to go to in any difficulty, 
in any trouble or apprehension. 


DONAL GRANT. 


443 


Miss Carmichael grew by degress less talkative, and less 
obtrusive of her opinions. After some years she conde- 
scended to marry a farmer on Lord Morven’s estate. 
Their only child, a thoughtful boy, and a true reader, 
sought the company of the grave man with the sweet 
smile, going often to his house to ask him about this or 
that. He reminded him of Davie, and grew very dear to 
him. The mother discovering that, as often as he stole 
away, it was to go to the master — everybody called him 
the maister — scolded and forbade. But the prohibition 
brought such a time of tears and gloom and loss of appe- 
tite, and her husband so little shared her prejudices against 
the master, that she was compelled to recall it, and the 
boy went and went as before. When he was taken ill, 
and on his death-bed, nobody could make him happy but 
the master; he almost nursed him through the last few 
days of his short earthly life. But the mother seemed 
not to like him any the better — rather to regard him as 
having deprived her of some of her rights in the love of 
her boy. 

Donal is still a present power of heat and light in the 
town of Auchars. He wears the same solemn look, the 
same hovering smile. They say to those who can read 
them, “I know in whom I have believed. ” It is the God 
who is the Father of the Lord that he believes in. His 
life is hid with Christ in God, and he has no anxiety about 
anything. The wheels of the coming chariot moving, fast 
or slow to fetch him, are always moving; and whether it 
arrive at night, or at cock-crowing, or in the blaze of 
noon, is one to him. He is ready for the life his Arctura 
knows. “God is,” he says, “and all is well.” He never 
disputes, rarely seeks to convince. “I will let what light 
I have shine; but disputation is smoke. It is to no profit! 
And I do like,” he says, “to give and to get the good of 
things!” 


THE EHD. 


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